Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Merlin watches the blades of grass grow, one millionth of a centimeter at a time.

For the last several years, it’s all he’s had the strength for. Just laying, his skin sagging into the earth, which was revolted by his lack of ambition. Just watching the grass as it slowly, slowly edged towards covering him, which, of course, was his ultimate goal.

If Merlin could just be buried in it. Buried in the grass, in the dirt, in the bones of the Earth itself, perhaps he would, well, not die, he can’t do that, but something close. Something close enough.

Merlin watches the blades of grass, and he thinks about the blades of grass, and he hopes to be a blade of grass.

For the last two hundred years or so, he’s been hoping to turn into grass. His body has frustratingly refused this whim of his, having long ago learned that what he wants is not always what is best for the magic worming its will inside of him.

Merlin is tired, tired, tired, and he is alive, alive, alive. Such a thing has been true longer than it has not.

Also, he’s not a blade of grass.

Merlin never could get what he wanted.

A few weeks ago, Merlin experienced his fifteenth hundred and fifty-sixth summer. He thinks. It’s hard to say for certain, of course, because Merlin hasn’t always lived in a place that experienced summer, and sometimes he lived in places where the summer happened at a wholly different time. There was a decade where he hopped from continent to continent, summer to summer. But in terms of the chronological, Merlin is fairly certain it was fifteen hundred and fifty six.

That might be wrong, though. Sometimes he tallies it to a whole different number.

He’s been a lot of things over the years. A warlock, a magician, a tax accountant, a Viking. He’s been a hero and a villain and a regular man.

One thing he has never been is a blade of grass.

He’s trying to change that.

Blades of grass seem much happier than people, after all.

Two thousand years changes a person. Kills them, roughly twenty-five times over, by his best estimate. He should be his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great- great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandson, assuming every version of himself lived to about eighty, which he figures is the average for most men.

Merlin, of course, is not most men. Never has been.

Much like he has never been a blade of grass.

Time moves funny when you’ve been around that long. Time moves… Faster. Slower, too, if he thinks about it too much. Mostly, it just moves.

Like blades of grass in the wind.

See? It all comes back to grass.

Merlin wishes more people understood that the grass is the only thing that makes sense, half the time.

The grass will always grow.

Maybe greener. Maybe not. Sometimes, it doesn’t grow for years and years and years, and sometimes it’s an entirely new grass that should have never even been on this part of the planet. But grows it does.

Merlin, like the grass, can’t do much but shrug and continue on.

He used to have a family. He remembers them. The bridge of a thick nose. The curl of brown hair. The scent of warm bread. The color of the sea. He had a family.

But, you know, that was twenty-five greats ago.

He had another one, sort of, twenty greats ago, and then again sixteen. Somewhere around ten greats ago, Merlin stopped trying. He forgot them all, in the end.

He was waiting for someone, he thinks.

Or someone was waiting for him?

It’s hard to remember.

What he does know, though, is that if this grass would just grow a little bit faster, he could be swallowed by it already. Honestly, what kind of shoddy grass doesn’t grow fast enough to kill a man?

A few years pass.

Merlin thinks.

Or, he waits.

Or, he’s waiting to think.

The grass has grown quite tall.

His body has grown weak. The skin is taut. He does not feel pain or hunger, though occasionally when an animal mistakes him as a path, he does feel discomfort when their feet dig into his ribs.

He doesn’t need to eat. He has the sun. He is, of course, training.

He will be a blade of grass by the end of this excursion. At least for a little while.

Finally, finally, the earth has molded around him. Grass so tall, he barely feels it anymore, too deep into the dirt. The sun is gone. He can’t feel it or see it. All there is around him is dirt.

So that’s why, when Merlin wakes from one of his plentiful naps, he’s surprised to realize that somehow, he’s climbed out of the dirt.

When did he decide to do that?

Of course, it’s not the first time his body and magic have made choices on his behalf.

Merlin sighs heavily, stretching. His bones feel newer. Younger. Normally, he notices when his magic refreshens his body. But, of course, he’d never been grass before. Perhaps it’s a different experience.

He looks up, trying to determine how long it has been. One great? Oh, he would love it if it were two.

He misses being grass already. But, of course, like everything in Merlin’s very long life, things must come to an end.

However, first thing he notices is how bright it is.

Was the sun this bright yesterday, he wonders. But, of course, yesterday, he was only thinking about blades of grass. What good would it do to notice the sun when one was finally living as grass?

Merlin blinks rapidly, clearing his vision. There is grass here, too, but it’s a different species of grass. A grass that is thinner, taller, coarser. He likes this grass, has always liked it. He used to make whistles out of it.

Unthinking, Merlin reaches down, and pets the grass.

Yes, yes, this is good grass, he thinks. I would be very happy if I was grass like this grass.

“Merlin, are you having one of your special moments?” A lilting voice mocks, each syllable coated in a tantalizing mix of annoyance and amusement.

Immediately after the question is posed, there is a trill of laughter. Without lifting his head or his hand, Merlin can feel the heartbeats of those who laughed. Five of them, he thinks. No, six. Six, if he includes the man who spoke.

Merlin’s eyes blur as he stares at the grass. The grass, he thinks, is gaping back at him.

“Merlin?” The voice repeats his name. This time, there is an undercurrent of concern. It replaces amusement. Annoyance remains.

Merlin looks harder at the grass. Did you do this? He asks. The grass trembles beneath his hand, the wind picking up as if to compensate. The grass, then, is blameless.

So that means it’s his fault.

Merlin looks up, and the bright, bright face of King Arthur Pendragon gazes down at him, the sun a halo—no, a crown—around his blond head.

It’s like waking from a dream.

Oh, right, Merlin thinks a bit wildly. Arthur.

It wasn’t like he forgot about Arthur Pendragon, the reason for his very long life.

It was just… Far away.

Like remembering there are atoms in the world. He could go a very, very long time without thinking of atoms. But once someone mentioned them, he was hit with the wonder and surprise of learning about atoms for the first time. Of knowing Arthur.

Merlin’s whole face bursts at the seams. He grins in a way he has never before; his gums are out, his teeth touching, his eyes watering. He’s never had such a smile. There’s never been a cause.

“I knew grass was the answer,” he says confidently.

Finally, finally, Merlin is dead.

Or at least close enough.

He has not seen Arthur’s face this clearly since 1124. Over nine hundred years since he’s seen the little curve of Arthur’s frown.

It’s a dimple, he thinks frantically. Arthur has a dimple.

Of course, of course, how could he forget that?

Merlin pets the grass again, thanking it for swallowing him, for killing him. Oh, he has finally done it. What a beautiful success.

Arthur frowns.

Or, rather, the gloriously death-restored memory of Arthur frowns.

“Stand up, turnip head,” Arthur insists.

Merlin’s brows raise. He doesn’t remember Arthur being quite so rude. Still, his king has commanded him, and he has missed that enough, so stands, he does.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asks, crossing his arms.

Merlin blinks. “Whatever would be wrong?” Merlin grins again. “I did it.”

If anything, this makes his king frown more. “What are you babbling about, the grass?”

“Oh, bugger off, Princess,” a strong voice commands, earning an eye roll from Arthur. A thick arm plops on Merlin’s shoulder, startling him. “Merlin’s allowed to talk to the grass.”

“Oh, says you?” Arthur scoffs.

“Yes, says me,” a grinning man replies.

Merlin looks at him. His brows pull together. The man’s grin is wide, but his eyes are sharp. Merlin’s lived long enough to recognize when someone is misleading him. Tricking him. He wants to make Merlin comfortable.

Merlin looks around. The other heartbeats—the heartbeats he’d heard earlier—are all inside of bodies. Bodies of men, he thinks, strong ones, too. Ones with bulging muscles and calculating stares and—Merlin’s eyes dart down—swords. Weapons.

The magic inside of Merlin flares, sizzling to his palms, ready to defend him.

“Merlin?” Another voice—another man, another heartbeat—says, eyes wide and tone incredulous.

This person has longer hair. Brown. Curled, a bit.

He thinks something about this hair is familiar.

“Stand down,” Arthur says.

Merlin does.

At the same time, the men around him step back, hands high, as if the command was for them.

“Tell me,” he commands.

Merlin scrambles forward. “I think I remember this,” he says, reaching out. His fingers touch on a gold clasp, holding together a red flowing cape. “Was this before or after I died?”

Arthur’s golden face watches him seriously. Merlin squeezes the clasp before shrugging and dropping it.

“We have to take him to Gaius,” the brown haired man says. There’s a murmuring of consent and then everyone leaps into action, including Arthur.

Merlin watches as the men move around, breaking camp. Merlin remembers this! He stands up gleefully—when did he sit again?—and begins dousing the fire with dirt. He hasn’t broken camp in a long time. And certainly not without his magic!

His magic is thrumming underneath his skin. Now that he isn’t so afraid anymore, it doesn’t seem to want to come out. Not that Merlin cares. What good is magic in a dream, anyway?

“Up you go, Merls,” a new person says.

Merlin looks at him, taking in his dark skin and kind eyes. “Blades of grass,” he says wistfully. How kind they were to him!

The man hesitates and then nods. “Blades of grass,” he confirms. Merlin beams.

Merlin climbs on top of a horse, because it’s clear the new stranger wants him to, and some of the other men are on horses, too. Merlin knows how to ride a horse. It’s been a while. A great or maybe a great-great. Certainly no more than a great-great-great-great, though. And all other greats had horses. So Merlin’s actually pretty good at riding horses.

Also, importantly, this is a dream. Or it’s death. Or it’s a dream-like death or a death-like dream. Either way, it doesn’t matter if Merlin can ride a horse.

So he rides fast and hard. He laughs when he hears the others curse, the sound of their horses’ chasing after him.

God, when has Merlin felt so free? He should’ve communed with the grass ages ago. This, he decides definitively, kicks ass.

He says so.

“Kicks ass?” A scandalized voice says.

“That’s a new one,” another replies, breathless.

Merlin slows his horse down. There’s fleeting gratitude on the tired man’s face.

He looks familiar.

They all do.

Merlin squints hard.

Arthur squints back at him. But of course, Merlin already knows Arthur.

He’d forgotten, sure, but not all the way. Not in his bones or in his magic or in his heart. Just a little bit in his head.

He looks at the other men. Maybe he’s forgotten them, too.

Slowly, Merlin nudges his horse closer to the man whose hair he recognizes. Dipping closer, he leans in. “Don’t think I’m trying to pick you up or anything, but am I supposed to remember you?”

The man’s eyes flick from confusion to bereavement, ever so fast. Merlin feels a bit badly.

“Yes,” he says softly. “My name is Lancelot. I am a Knight of Camelot… And I’m your friend.”

The name rings a bell.

But…

Merlin shrugs. “And these other guys?”

The same sad look is on Lancelot’s face. “Your friends. Your knights.”

Merlin’s surprised by that. Surprised enough, even, that he doesn’t pay attention to the branch his horse is walking towards.

It hits him on his head, hard, and he’s tumbling away from the horse before anyone has even finished shouting his name.

Merlin falls, his back hitting the ground hard. It knocks the wind out of him.

It really, truly, properly hurts.

He gasps for air, hand on his chest, and he feels as it moves up and down, trying to breathe.

Staring at the blue sky, Arthur’s concerned face hovers above him, eyes pinched with concern, his mouth moving in a familiar shape but Merlin can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. His two strong hands cover Merlin’s shoulders, yanking him up. Merlin’s head feels like a ragdoll.

“—most died!” He’s shouting when Merlin can finally hear again.

Merlin frowns. “I am dead.”

Arthur’s face crumbles. “No,” he says, voice tight. “No, you are not. And you won’t be any time, soon, got it?”

Merlin almost laughs. “No, not any time soon, I suppose,” he agrees, thinking of the wars and famine and torture and, blessedly, the grass.

But then Arthur squeezes him again, tight to the point of pain, before letting him go, and Merlin’s thoughts come a bit clearer as his heart rate slows down.

Looking up, he sees the concerned looks of his friends. In his chest, he feels pain. Beneath him, he feels the ground. And, yes, he feels the grass.

And Merlin thinks—horrifying, terrifying, overwhelmingly—that maybe he isn’t dead and maybe this isn’t a dream.

Merlin, in fact, is having an even more impossible thought.

After fifteen hundred and fifty-six years, Merlin might actually be losing his mind.

Because he thinks he might be alive.

And he thinks the grass might have sent him back through time.

Chapter Text

Merlin wakes up in a bed that feels like rocks.

He knows it’s a bed, knows it’s not rocks, but it’s almost astonishing how uncomfortable it is.

Merlin’s spent centuries without a proper bed. He’s slept in caves—on literal rocks—and he’s slept, for one month straight, on a turret’s edge, just to prove a point.

This bed is somehow worse than all of them.

Groaning, Merlin sits up, his head aching. He places a hand to it, pulsing magic through the point of contact. The effects are instant, like the world’s best hangover cure. Merlin sags a little in relief, pressing the magic a bit further, down through his neck and into his spine, because, hello, the rock-bed.

“Merlin!” A loud voice gasps, and his head snaps up in alarm. A man is rushing towards him, his eyes huge and his white hair literally billowing from the speed he’s picking up. “What are you doing, stupid boy?”

A hand smacks his own hand away.

Okay, ouch. Also, that’s rude. Merlin scowls at the man. “What is your problem?” He asks harshly before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

Then he freezes.

Merlin’s not sure why, but his feet look wrong.

He looks at them with narrowed eyes. His shoes are strange. Old. Worn. Why hasn’t he bought new shoes?

Wait a second, why is he even wearing shoes? Isn’t he meant to be in nature—

Arthur.

It all comes tumbling back, like the way a bowl of supper falls from the edge of a counter, seemingly sturdy one moment and impossibly (and annoyingly) messy the next.

Merlin gasps, blinking rapidly, as he looks around the room. His vision scans everything as fast as he can—stone walls, a horrible little bed, a wardrobe with rickety wooden doors that don’t stay closed very well, a small window with a ledge just big enough for him to sit on—and an old man.

Merlin stands, and his hands raise ever so slowly to touch the fabric of the man’s shirt. It’s gray and coarse, the feeling remarkable beneath his finger tips.

So real, he marvels. This feels so real.

“But it can’t be,” he whispers. Merlin’s eyes move up, little by little. Stubble on waxy skin. Eyes that are sharp and concerned. An eyebrow composed of what appears to be a million long white hairs, perfectly arched in the form of disappointment.

“Sit down, Merlin,” the man says, and his hands are surprisingly strong as they push on Merlin’s shoulders. He lets himself be guided, but his fingers curl around the man’s wrist and pull him down, too.

This has the added benefit of Merlin feeling the man’s pulse.

“Get me a book,” he says suddenly.

“Why—”

The man is taking too long. Merlin lifts a hand and a book from the other room flies toward him. Merlin catches it easily, ignoring the way the man says his name sharp and strangled. He opens it to a random page.

Gibberish, he thinks with relief, sagging. Absolutely not a real language.

See, this is a dream. In a dream, you can’t read. Merlin remembers learning that. It was a fascinating discovery. He’d asked almost every person he met for three straight years if they believed that to be true. The consequential academic studies were partially funded by his own curiosity.

But then Merlin keeps looking at the page, and, actually, well, he thinks that word might be boil.

He points. “Sir, what does this say?”

The man makes another strange sound. Merlin taps the page impatiently.

“Erm, boil the tea,” the man says in a heavily accented voice.

Merlin squints.

Yeah… That definitely says boil.

“I haven’t read this language in a long time,” Merlin murmurs, mostly to himself. The longer he stares at it, though, the more it comes flying back. It feels a bit like training wheels.

He looks up.

The man is just staring at him with his mouth open.

Merlin…

Merlin has seen that face before.

He has seen this exact expression before, he’s positive of it.

The longer he stares, the more frantic he becomes. Merlin knows this face! He must know this face! His chest is heaving and heavy. He can’t really breathe—how can he breathe? How could he forget this face? The face is becoming more and more concerned the longer Merlin stares at it, but Merlin can’t place it.

Sure, sure, he can derive from context clues that he knew this man during his time with Arthur. He is not completely out of it—he is capable of rational thinking.

But this man’s face… Who is this man?

Merlin scans his memories desperately.

Richard? No, no, Richard was in the fourteenth century. That was the man with the awful little puppy who peed on Merlin every time he passed him sleeping in the park.

Jonathon, then. Except, no. Jonathon was 999. He remembers because the man drank nearly a thousand drinks that year in celebration and sorrow.

Gregory? No, not Gregory. Gregory was later than even Richard, the last man on the battle field before Merlin slunk away like a coward.

Who is this man?

“Merlin, calm down, it’s okay,” the man soothes, his voice gentle.

His father? Merlin doesn’t have a father. He is pretty sure he’s never had a father. Did he have a father and forget him entirely?

“Merlin,” the man pleads.

He realizes that his magic is unleashed. The objects in the room are floating. The man is frightened. Merlin does not know this man, but he does love him. He can feel that now, firm in his chest like an apple in his palm, a knot he can’t undo. He slowly breathes deeply, letting his mind quiet and his magic relax. Eventually, everything in the room goes back to the right spot.

Merlin remembers Arthur now. His concern in the forest. The way the other men had him climb a horse and, oh, hell, he fell off a horse, didn’t he? That’s embarrassing.

“I’m afraid I can’t remember your name,” Merlin admits finally. “But my heart is very happy to see you.”

The man’s face falls. His eyes flicker across Merlin’s face. “My name is Gaius,” he says slowly.

Gaius.

Gaius.

Nope.

Nada.

Still, Merlin smiles. “Of course,” he lies smoothly. “Gaius.”

“Tell me what happened,” Gaius suggests.

Merlin nods. “When?”

Gaius produces a warm, steaming mug. Merlin accepts it instantly. He sips it, pleased to note that it’s got an almost sweet taste to it. He settles back beside Merlin.

“Arthur tells me you were out on a hunt when suddenly you were… Afflicted.” Gaius says diplomatically.

Merlin snorts. “I was not affected. I was alive,” he laughs.

Something flickers across Gaius’s face. “Why don’t you tell me what you remember?”

“Alright,” he agrees. “I was a blade of grass. I had been a blade of grass for several years. Well, I had been becoming a blade of grass for several years. The process is incredibly time consuming.”

Gaius’s expression doesn’t falter. “What does that process look like?”

Merlin taps his nose once. “Sitting very, very still.”

Gaius grimaces. Merlin shrugs.

“I suppose I died. But I’m not so sure now. Regardless, I stopped being grass, and when I stood up, I was with Arthur and… the knights.” Merlin tacks on, mindfully not saying a bunch of strangers.

Gaius nods. His brows are drawn in concentration. Merlin really likes his brows. They’re comforting.

“Drink your tea,” Gaius mutters.

Merlin obediently sips.

“You remembered Arthur?” Gaius prompts.

Merlin nods. “Of course.”

“But not the knights.”

He nods again, though slower. “I… Remembered Lancelot’s hair. He had to remind me of his name, too. And I haven’t gotten around to asking the others. A stupid tree branch interrupted things. Then I woke up here.”

“Yes, Arthur says you fainted right in his arms.”

Merlin groans. “He’ll be a right prat about that, I bet.”

Gaius’s lips twitch. “So you remember Arthur well then?”

Merlin shrugs. “Yes. No. It depends. He didn’t really have a baby with Morgana, did he?”

Gaius splutters, his eyes rounded and alarmed. “Of course not! Why would you say such a thing?”

“Rumors,” Merlin explains. “They are even harder to dispel after death, unfortunately.”

Gaius’s expression turns dower again. “You keep mentioning death.”

Merlin cocks his head. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Gaius,” Merlin leans in, whispering conspiratorially. “Either I’m dead or you’re all dead.”

“And what if neither were true?”

Merlin pops his brows up, trying to mimic the way Gaius seems to be capable of crafting expressions just from the hair there.

“Humor me,” Gaius says dryly with an expert brow twitch.

Merlin sighs. “Then I suppose the grass sent me back in time almost two thousand years.” Then he bursts into laughter again. “Doesn’t death sound much more plausible?”

Gaius’s face pales. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

The sound of wood scraping draws Merlin’s attention. He leans forward, looking through the doorway. There is a whole room out there that Merlin would like to explore now. He stands up and sees a flash of red.

“Someone’s here,” Merlin informs Gaius.

When the man looks alarmed, Merlin’s heart leaps in his throat, a bit fearful. His magic crinkles uncertainly.

“Be careful,” Gaius warns, a hand on his wrist.

Merlin frowns. “With what?”

“Your life,” Gaius says quietly. “Do not use your magic. Do not let anyone know you—you are dead—or they are dead—or you are not of this time. Whatever is happening, do not let anyone know of it. Keep it all a secret, Merlin, promise me.”

Merlin hesitates.

He doesn’t like secrets.

He’s never liked secrets.

“Gaius…”

“Merlin, promise me.”

The man’s eyes are wide, and, to Merlin’s horror, glistening. Merlin doesn’t want Gaius to feel bad. He doesn’t want him afraid or scared.

So Merlin decides one little secret between him, the grass, and Gaius is totally fine.

“Alright,” he soothes. “I promise.”

As soon as he says it, there is a loud clatter in the other room.

Merlin leaves Gaius behind, intent on exploring now.

He sees two of the knights from before. One, with the hair, is Lancelot. He knows him. Or, he’s supposed to. He knows his name at least. The other is the one whose friendly voice didn’t match his concerned eyes. He was trying to trick Merlin.

Merlin’s hackles rise.

“Hello,” he offers, but he tacks on a scathing once over of the manipulator.

Who, for what it’s worth, seems deeply offended by Merlin’s appraisal.

“Merls,” the man says.

“Ah, Lancelot and Gwaine,” Gaius says as he hobbles towards Merlin. God, he seems so old for being so young. Merlin rushes to help him down the stairs only to be swatted away.

“Hello, Gaius,” Lancelot says, dipping his head in respect. Merlin’s heart warms. This one, this one he likes.

“Here to check on the patient?” Gaius asks, gesturing to Merlin.

Merlin’s jaw drops. “I’m the patient? I fall off one measly horse…”

The knights laugh.

“Gwaine, Lancelot,” Gaius repeats, and his shrewd eyes dart to Merlin. Merlin realizes that he’s saying their names so Merlin learns them. Yes, Gaius, got it, he thinks, rolling his eyes. “Please sit.”

The knights sit at a wooden bench. After a moment, Merlin sits across from them.

The bench is very well made. It’s old, sagging just a little, and the table is cluttered and prime for splinters. But Merlin would be hard pressed to see something this well crafted in the 2000s. For as terrible of a bed as Camelot offers, the bench is good.

The thought shoots through him again like fire.

Camelot.

Merlin is in Camelot.

His eyes dart up, catching on Gaius, who is setting tea in front of the knights.

“Lovely day,” Merlin says, drawing out the words. “In Camelot.”

Gaius beams.

Merlin beams back.

The knights exchange a glance.

“Merlin, what was all that earlier? About the grass?” Gwaine asks, leaning in with his elbows on the table.

Merlin bristles. “Between me and the grass,” he grumbles.

Gwaine’s eyes widen in surprise, potentially at Merlin’s harsh tone. He is having a very difficult time remembering Gwaine. Remembering anyone, really.

“Sun sickness,” Gaius interrupts. “Merlin spent far too long in the sun this week gathering herbs for me. I believe this morning was simply too far. He needs plenty of rest,” Gaius slams a cup in front of him, “And fluids.”

Merlin rolls his eyes again but obediently drinks the water.

It is not very good.

He had a Britta, back before he was grass. He misses it now.

Gwaine looks down. When he glances up again, he has a sad expression on his face. Merlin watches him curiously.

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” he says, and he does sound genuine. “I should have noticed something was off.”

Merlin is touched. If he actually had sun sickness, he’d feel really cared for right now.

“Not your fault,” Merlin offers in condolences.

Gwaine frowns a little, but doesn’t say anything else.

Lancelot looks between them, the crease between his brow seemingly permanent now.

“We should let Arthur know you’ve recovered from your… episode,” Lancelot says. “Merlin, we’ll talk soon?”

Merlin shrugs. “Okay.”

Lancelot and Gwaine exchange another look, irritating Merlin, before they head out.

“What is with those guys, huh?” Merlin asks as soon as they close the door. He crosses his arms around his chest. “Mind your own business, am I right?”

Gaius looks as if Merlin is being particularly annoying on purpose. “We have to get your memories back. And soon.”

“What’s the rush?” Merlin asks, sitting back on the bench. “I remember Arthur, that’s good enough.”

“That is most certainly not good enough. Tell me, Merlin, who is the king right now?” When he doesn’t answer, Gaius keeps going. “When did you first come here? What is your daily routine? Which herbs cure a fever? Which foods are Arthur allergic to? Who is your greatest enemy? Who can you trust? Who is your mother?”

Merlin can’t answer any of this.

He just…

He was just a piece of grass. Doesn’t Gaius get that?

Gaius sighs heavily, leaning to Merlin. He puts one hand on Merlin’s shoulder, and, surprisingly, the weight is very comforting.

“We have to get your memories back,” he repeats gently. “Before you get yourself—and everyone you hold dear—killed.”

Chapter Text

Merlin thinks that apples are the most delicious thing he’s ever had.

He lifts a cut slice of apple, chomping it hard, and grins at Arthur’s disgusted expression.

“You do know that isn’t going anywhere?” He asks, face a little green.

Merlin chews thoroughly—and swallows—before answering. “You don’t know that, Arthur. You don’t know everything.”

He lifts a brow. “You think the apple is going to get up and walk away?”

Merlin rolls his eyes, plucking another slice. “No,” he replies. “I think a certain prat is going to decide he wants them and refuse to share.”

Arthur narrows his eyes and steals a piece. Merlin gestures, muttering see around his mouthful of apples.

“You know,” Arthur says, taking his knife to stab a spare apple. Merlin can’t believe he has a whole bowl of them. In the 1990s, for example, that’s not that big of a deal. But here? In the 500-somethings? Royalty.

Merlin has been back for approximately three days. He’s adapting. Gaius has declared him fit to be around others, but he’s meant to claim a stomach ache and flee if anyone so much as looks at him funny. Apparently, hiding him because of some sort of sun sickness is an excuse that only works for seventy-two hours.

Merlin’s recovered a few memories. Mostly, it was done through a lot of meditation, and, okay, a lot of begging the gods. He remembers, for example, the time he made himself very old. Not all of it. Not really his motivations or fears. But he remembers feeling so old. It stands out to him because, excluding a few more glamours he’s used in his long life, he doesn’t actually age, so he’s never actually been that old. He remembers, then, looking at his old face and marveling that he would one day look like that man looking back. Merlin knows this sticks out because it was just… Not true.

He remembers other things, too. Inexplicably, he remembers almost every single detail of Yennifer, the baker who lives in the lower town who makes absolutely spectacular fruit tarts. He remembers talking to her, haggling with her, that she will eventually marry a man called George and have three little children, only two of which he can reasonably call cute.

He doesn’t remember more about the knights, unfortunately. Nor about his mother or friends. According to Gaius, there is some long winded scientific explanation for why the passing of time would steal from him the memories of his life.

Merlin wishes he could remember more about Arthur. Their time together. The nuance of their relationship. It’s so… blurry to him. He can conjure the emotion, almost, and he can remember bits and pieces—enough that his heart still swells when Arthur enters a room, and he knows he has not cared for anyone more than he cared for Arthur. But it’s not the same as remembering.

And Arthur looks at him, and he sees a man that Merlin hasn’t been in a very, very long time.

He finds it lonelier than before, when Arthur was lost to him. It is worse by far to feel like he is lost to Arthur.

Yet he knows he would not give up a moment of his new time with Arthur, even if he feels this ache inside of him for the rest of his life.

“You look morose,” Arthur comments, gesturing with the apple sticking out of his knife. “Why?”

“A man’s moroseness is private, Arthur,” Merlin says, shaking his head. He tsks his tongue.

Arthur frowns at him.

He’s been doing that a lot.

Did he do that a lot before?

Merlin. Can’t. Remember.

He huffs, annoyed at himself, his memory, and the grass’s fairly unstable spell.

“You’re not even supposed to be eating my apples,” Arthur points out.

Merlin scowls. “What good were they doing you? Sitting over here in this bowl!”

“I would have eaten them eventually,” he argues with a laugh.

Merlin shrugs. “I am eating them now. Trust me, Arthur, there’s no time like the present.”

Arthur gives him a look again. One that Past-Merlin probably could have deciphered. But despite having seen about a billion more faces than him, Current-Merlin is unable to parse out the nuance of Current-Past-Arthur’s wrinkles.

“Do you need me to remind you of your place again?” Arthur asks.

Merlin wagers from his tone he’s joking.

However, this sounds like a great idea to him. He nods eagerly. “Please,” he says, waving a hand. “Enlighten me.”

Arthur lets out another one of those laughs—the one that seems at least as surprised as it is amused—and then kicks back in his chair, legs on the table, crossing his feet at the ankles.

“Well,” he drawls, his eyes lighting up. “I’m the prince. You’re the servant.”

Merlin nods. “I knew that part.”

“You knew that part,” Arthur repeats, huffing out a laugh. His eyes are so blue. Merlin likes looking at them. He really does. “It means I make the rules.”

“What do I make?”

Arthur’s lips twitch. “You make the bed.” He points at the tall lump of blankets and pillows. “Not well. Have you gotten worse, Merlin, since your little fainting spell?”

Merlin thinks he probably has. He shrugs. Arthur gives him a warm look.

“It’s possible,” he says. “Your bed has too many blankets. Most people just use one.”

Arthur taps his chin. “That’s the point, Merlin. I’m not just most people.”

“That’s true,” Merlin allows. “You’re Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur’s brows pull together. He shifts, letting his feet drop loudly to the floor. “Yep,” he says, frowning still. “Are you sure Gaius says you’re well enough to work?”

“Yes, Mother.” Merlin rolls his eyes. He reaches over, grabbing Arthur’s goblet, and takes a spin of the watered down wine he was drinking. Arthur splutters, so Merlin puts it back.

Arthur stands, giving him a strange look. Merlin shifts, trying to school his expression.

He’s meant to be fading into the background, not divulging that he’s not the same Merlin that was here last week. He’s supposed to not raise suspicions lest he get a bunch of people murdered, as Gaius warns him every morning over soup. Why is he eating soup for breakfast? Because apparently Cheerios are not going to be invented for a long time.

Merlin has tried to explain to Gaius that he won’t get everyone killed because Uther is just some guy and Merlin is a sorcerer who has spent close to two thousand years thinking about how much he hates the dude.

Oh, yeah. That’s another thing Merlin remembers.

He fucking hates Arthur’s dad.

When he was younger, back the first time around, he remembers feeling faint… pity. Pity for Arthur, maybe, because he knew how badly he wanted his dad to love him, and he had that same feeling in his own chest. But Merlin’s an old man now. He’s been Uther’s age (and then some.) He’s also made horrible mistakes, at least as bad as Uther’s, and he’s lost people he’s loved, at least as much as Uther loved Ygraine. And he never started a genocide. Turns out, not that difficult.

Merlin can’t remember all the details. But the feelings are coming back, one by one.

“Your schedule today, is it pretty packed?” Merlin asks.

Athur frowns. “Packed?”

“Busy?”

“Busy.” Arthur shakes his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. You know my schedule as well as me, Merlin. Come on. We’ll be late.”

Merlin scrambles up, wiping his hands on his pants to get rid of the apple juice. He looks around, unsure if he’s supposed to be doing something, but then Arthur sighs heavily, grabbing his sword belt himself. He puts it on and walks out. Merlin follows.

The halls are surprisingly long. Merlin’s legs are long and he’s in good enough shape, but it still feels like an actual work out to keep up with Arthur. He has to fight the urge to lift his arms like a middle aged woman in 1980 power walking.

He chuckles to himself at the image.

“What’s so funny, Merlin?” Arthur asks, shooting him a look.

“Uh,” Merlin considers if he could somehow explain the joke. He sighs. “Nothing.”

He follows Arthur down the stairs, feeling a bit more morose. Arthur would’ve loved that joke. If he could just understand what a power walking woman looks like, he would have thought it was really funny.

Merlin falters.

Is he faced with living a life where he has to pretend to not be as funny as he is? He’s actually very funny. But his references are… Whatever the opposite of dated are.

Merlin stomps after Athur, avoiding making eye contact with maids and servants and guards who he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to know but haven’t produced a strong enough emotional reaction for him to have any sort of memory of them.

He doesn’t realize where they’re going until they’re literally on the training field. Merlin looks around, spotting the knights in their bright, glimmering armor, and he tries to remember when sunglasses were invented.

Merlin makes a mental note to ask Gaius the ethical repercussions for inventing power walking a few (hundred) decades early before turning to find Arthur shoving a shield at him.

“Time to train,” Arthur says, brow popping and that cocky, confident grin on his face. Merlin thinks he could live another million years and not forget it. It’s that aggravating.

“No thanks,” Merlin tries.

Arthur’s lips push together. Merlin scans his memory for this look. He squints hard. Unfortunately, the effort of his thinking is apparently visible enough that Arthur’s expression is falling and concern is taking over the place.

“It’s not up to you, Merlin,” Arthur says firmly, pushing the shield at him again. This time, Merlin accepts it.

The shield is heavy in his arms. He feels the strain of his muscles almost immediately. He shifts, fidgeting, wondering how much mental memory and muscle memory need each other.

Arthur’s walked off a few feet, chatting with one of the knights whose name Merlin can’t remember.

He lifts the shield then makes a lunge. It hurts his thighs. He thinks about the power walking moms again.

“Uh, Merls? What are you doing?”

Merlin startles, dropping the shield. It hits his foot, and he yelps loudly.

When he looks up, a scowl on his face, he sees Gwaine standing with his sword at his side and his jaw dropped.

Tears sting in Merlin’s eyes as he slowly lowers himself to the ground to cradle his foot.

“Merlin…” He says slowly, his expression horrified. “I’m so sorry.”

Merlin feels fury the likes of which he hasn’t felt since a man in 1879 ate the last funnel cake when Merlin had literally only just discovered they existed.

“I… I didn’t think you’d drop the shield—”

“Gwaine!” Merlin squeezes his eyes shut to stop from being mean. “What do you need?”

“I—” Gwaine swallows. Merlin tries so hard to not say anything. “Was just… Saying hi?”

Merlin nods. “Hi, Gwaine.”

“Merlin!” Arthur yells. “Get up!”

“I’ve broken my foot!” Merlin shouts back.

Arthur stomps over. He kicks Merlin’s foot. Merlin growls, but his reaction is small enough that Arthur knows he’s being dramatic.

“Up,” Arthur demands.

Merlin gives Gwaine another glare but does accept his hand as help up. He hobbles a little, shaking his foot, and then gets the shield up.

Gwaine slinks away.

Arthur frowns after him before turning back to Merlin. “What is going on with you two anyway?” Arthur asks, moving his sword and tapping it against Merlin’s shield.

Merlin grits his teeth, careful to not drop the sword again. “What?”

“You’re acting like Gwaine kicked your puppy,” Arthur says, and he hits the shield with more force.

“Maybe he did,” Merlin counters. I don’t have a puppy, right?

“It’s not like you,” Arthur says. His sword makes contact again—this time, it’s hard enough to send vibrations through Merlin’s arms.

Merlin’s temper flares.

Arthur doesn’t know him.

He doesn’t. He thinks he does, but that’s not him, not anymore. No one knows Merlin!

No one has known Merlin in a very, very long time.

And Arthur has the audacity to tell him that being mad he hurt his foot isn’t like him.

Grief, strong like pain, shoots through him.

Merlin shoves hard, his shield forcing Arthur’s sword back. “Maybe you just don’t know what’s like me!”

Arthur’s eyes widen in shock, and Merlin watches with remarkable satisfaction as Arthur is forced to take a step back to keep his sword in his hand.

“Merlin!” He admonishes.

But Merlin advances. “I’m not—” him.

Arthur throws his sword to the side and grabs Merlin by the shoulder. He yanks him hard, dragging him to the bench where the men can rest. The few standing there drinking water scatter like Arthur will turn on them next.

Magic flares underneath Merlin’s skin. It doesn’t want to lash out, but it’s there, reminding Merlin that he is not in danger, that he does not need to be afraid, that he is not alone.

But the magic is just him. It might want to comfort him, might have a mind of its own sometime—but it’s only him as his blood and heart and soul is him.

Merlin is alone. Just him and his magic.

Even here, even back, in Camelot again, surrounded by the people he’s spent centuries mourning and missing and loving, Merlin is alone.

He can’t remember, but he’s afraid that he’s always been alone. Even the first time around. Even then.

By the time Arthur shoves him unceremoniously on the bench, Merlin has deflated. His anger is gone. He’s just… Tired.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, his voice low and sharp. It doesn’t take Merlin’s memories for him to know that this isn’t Arthur, his friend. This is Arthur the Prince. Merlin looks up at him, at his scandalized expression and bright (bright, bright) blue eyes. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I won’t keep reminding you.”

“Reminding me what, sire?” Because apparently, Merlin doesn’t have a lick of self-preservation.

Arthur glowers. “To mind your place.” There’s a beat where the words drill into Merlin like fingernails. Then, Arthur softens a little—he’s still glaring, but there’s no heat in his eyes anymore, and his lips are trying hard to not switch into a sullen frown. “At least out here. Mind your place, Merlin.”

Arthur turns away, back to the knights. He barks an order, and they all stand to attention. Gwaine is looking at him like a wounded animal. Elyan and Percival keep trying to steal glances, too. Leon and Lancelot, though, aren’t looking at him at all. Merlin doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse.

He knows he’s in time out.

Mind your place.

Be careful.

Warnings, warnings, warnings.

In the heat of the moment, when Merlin was shoving back against Arthur, he’d felt something inside of him crack. A memory.

Merlin remembers something now: He used to listen to warnings.

And what fucking good did that get him?

Merlin looks down, unable to stomach watching the knights any longer. Beneath his feet, the grass is stomped all over, flat against the earth.

What have you done to me? He asks it, his heart heavy.

The grass doesn’t say anything back.

Merlin is alone.

Chapter Text

Merlin walks down the dirt path, squinting at the flowers curling in patches. He looks down at the little notes that Gaius have written for him, then back to the flowers, then back to the notes.

It is… Difficult to discern if this is the right plant.

He grabs it from the root anyway and tucks it into his pouch.

Arthur has given him reduced duties for the day.

He’s bitter about it.

Has Merlin been terrible at his job? Yes. He has been told by no fewer than six people that he was always terrible at his job, that it’s part of his charm, according to one servant girl. But apparently, he’s gotten far worse.

To be fair, he barely remembers anything or anyone and he keeps sending food back because he thinks it has gone bad but actually that’s just what milk looks like in the middle fucking ages—

He sighs at the crumpled flowers in his hands. Merlin takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, and then tries again to identify the yellow petals.

Merlin wants to be helpful. He wants to find the right plants and herbs and flowers that he’s supposedly always goes to get for Gaius.

He wants to do a good job for Arthur. He wants to make Arthur happy.

He has a feeling that he has always wanted to make Arthur happy.

Merlin sits beneath a tree, burying his face in his hands.

“The air is nice here,” he says softly. “The air is so fresh. Not like back where I was.”

The wind whistles behind him. He tilts his head, listening.

No one there. Nothing.

Merlin listens anyway.

Across the dirt path, inside of a little groove, is a squirrel inching towards a fallen apple. Merlin watches it, feeling oddly in kindred spirits.

For a few minutes, he just watches. He lets the feeling of the earth recharge him, like he used to do with a phone. He misses phones. Phones rocked. He used to be able to use phones to order pizzas. Arthur would love pizza. He thinks all the knights would, really. Except maybe Leon. Merlin has almost no memory of the First Knight, and what he’s gleaned in the last week makes him think the man would snub a ooey gooey cheesy deliciousness.

Merlin sighs, stomach grumbling, and turns back to Gaius’s notebook to see if there are any other plants nearby he’s supposed to try and find.

“Merlin!” A voice says in surprise.

Merlin immediately looks to the squirrel. But it’s gone. Then he hears footsteps—human footsteps—and looks up to see a pretty Black woman with long curly hair.

“Hello!” He says, voice cheery, even as his head spins and his mind whirls. Who is she? He wracks his brain for all the names he knows, filtering out the obviously male names because of the year he’s in. Not Yennifer, not Babette, not Morgana, not Morguase, not Elaine—Perhaps someone called Freya, whose name sends little buzzing into his ear, or perhaps Hunith, though, no, Gaius says that’s his mother’s name—These names don’t inspire imagery or feeling. Just a flicker of recognition. He’s trying hard to remember more names that might produce that same flicker.

“Gwen?” He ventures.

The woman gives him a strange smile, like she wanted to frown. “Merlin,” she repeats.

Gwen, then.

She’s walking towards him, in and out of the sun as the leaves above give way to the light. He thinks, when she’s right in the light, that maybe he does remember a bit of her after all. The way her hair sits over her shoulder feels familiar, as do the flowers on her corsets.

Merlin focuses hard. He wants to remember something. If he can remember something, something real, something important—not just a good guess, not just a flicker—then he has a chance of remembering everything.

All he can really get though is a burst of fondness.

He clenches to it, like a flame in a cave, all the same.

 “Care to join me?” He waves to the ground he’s sitting on.

Gwen is wearing a soft purple dress. She holds a basket full of dandelions. Not exactly the sit in the dirt kind of woman, he guesses—

But then she sits in the dirt, smiling at him a bit more authentically.

“You have been hard to pin down as of late,” she comments lightly.

Merlin grins. “Ah, so I have.”

“I have missed you,” she says.

Fear shoots through him. That was… Fond.

If Merlin has a girlfriend in this world, that is going to spell disaster.

“I have missed you, too, Gwen,” he says anyway. He feels it true in his heart. He doesn’t feel anything stronger for her than that fondness, but he can tell he cares for her all the same.

She looks a lot like someone he once knew. Probably several someones in several onces. He thinks it’s her eyes. They’re very kind.

He misses her. Even sitting in front of him. He misses all the women he once knew who reminded him of her even when he didn’t know it. He misses everything.

“Oh, Merlin,” Gwen says softly, and she reaches her hands out to grab his. Merlin lets her, almost surprised. Her hands are very soft, but her grip is firm. “You know you can tell me anything. Truly.”

Merlin feels his eyes immediately well with tears. Her expression softens even further.

“Gwen,” he says, voice thick. “Do you remember when we met?”

Her brows pull together, but she nods. “Of course. I thought you were very brave.”

Her voice is light and teasing. Merlin’s heart aches.

“Tell me the story, will you?” He whispers.

Gwen’s confusion is clear. She blinks rapidly. But she nods. “You were in the stocks, having just stood up to Arthur. He was a terrible bully back then, wasn’t he?”

Merlin nods. “Yes, yes, a terrible bully.”

“The whole lower town was talking about you, you know. The brave boy from Essetir who would speak to the prince like he was just any one!”

Merlin’s throat clenches. You’ve had your fun my friend.

“You had such joy, even as you were in the stocks. The children throwing their rotten vegetables, but you just had a smile on your face.”

Do we know each other?

I’m Merlin.

“I remember thinking, this is someone who is going to change things around here. Of course, I thought perhaps you’d change the rules on Arthur’s lower town outings, not that you’d become so dear to him.”

So I don’t know you.

No.

“And he does. You know that, right, Merlin? Arthur might not always show it well, but you are important to him, as I know he is to you.”

Yet you called me friend.

That was my mistake.

“I hope you aren’t too upset with him—”

Merlin can’t take it anymore. He hurts all over like he has just been used on the training ground all day. He feels it like muscle aches and a sore back.

“I’m not upset,” he interrupts quickly. He squeezes Gwen’s hand so hopefully she is not too upset with his attitude.

Gwen’s brows pull together. “Then Merlin, what is it? You’ve been acting so strangely.”

Merlin’s throat burns. He blinks, looking away, and tries to think.

Something about Gwen is disarming. He’s been able to flit away and tell a joke and make light of the situation so far. Even with Gaius, he’s mostly been able to shrug off his concern and keep him distracted. Of course, he can see Gaius’ concern. He sees his sorrow. Merlin isn’t the man he was a week ago, not for Gaius, and he sees how much he misses the old him. He sees how disappointed he is that Merlin isn’t him.

Everyone is disappointed. Arthur frowns when he thinks he isn’t looking. The knights exchange looks. The servants sigh heavily when he asks questions. Gwen misses a man Merlin hasn’t been in a thousand years.

And there’s nothing Merlin can do about it.

His eyes swell with tears.

“Oh, Merlin,” Gwen says again, and she gives Merlin a hug. He throws his arms around her, hugging her tightly.

“What if…” He stops, burying his face in her shoulder.

Gwen strokes his back for a moment before pulling away. Merlin feels exposed and raw.

“Tell me,” she says, and though the sympathy is right there, there’s also something firm and real.

Merlin remembers the myths that have permeated society since the first time Camelot fell. He remembers the stories of Queen Guinevere. And Merlin realizes that his friend Gwen has so much waiting on her shoulders, and he has absolutely no idea if she knows it yet.

What is real? What is a memory, what is a book he read or a lecture he saw or a dream he had? Does Gwen love Arthur? Is Gwen royalty? Is she a servant? Is she in love with Lancelot? Is she happy? Is she happy? Is she happy—

He wants his memories back so badly, so fiercely, that he feels it like nausea.

It’s like being dunked in cold water. He gasps, lungs spasming, as he remembers her in flashes.

Laughter so hard it rings in his ears for the rest of the night. Her lips against his as he shook from a fever. Her brown eyes sharp and angry as she raced from danger, her arms strong as she swung a sword, her face open and vulnerable as she gazes up at his friend.

He remembers nights in the corner of feasts, arms heavy from holding wine jugs, and the way she’d murmur a whisper of warning in the halls. He remembers watching her heart get broken over and over again from these men who insist they know what she needs. He remembers her father, and the way she wept over his body.

It’s not everything. It’s not every moment together. And the memories that do come are lacking so much context, he couldn’t even begin to guess when they happened or what they mean.

But he looks at her, and he remembers.

He comes back, like bobbing in the ocean and spitting out water, and sees Gwen’s very concerned face hovering over his.

“Merlin, Merlin, just breathe,” she’s saying.

Merlin realizes that he’s in fact not breathing and tries. He inhales shakily.

“There,” she says softly. “Good, good.”

“Gwen,” he manages, and he clings to her, hand tightening around her elbow. “Gwen, I’m so sorry.”

She recoils a little, shock on her face. “Whatever for?”

Merlin bites his cheek, shaking his head. “I don’t know. But I am, okay? I am.”

“Okay, Merlin, I forgive you. I forgive you.”

Merlin pulls back. He lets out a shaky laugh, wiping his face. Tears fling off like he’d dunked his head in water.

“Sorry,” he says again, this time a bit more in control. “I’m... Having a very strange week.”

Gwen lets out a startled laugh. “Yes, yes, I can see that.”

Merlin tries to smile. It’s probably more of a grimace.

Gwen gives him an identical look.

Merlin’s heart aches. Gwen’s kindness is legendary, he thinks wildly. He wishes he could tell her that.

Gwen stands suddenly, grabbing her basket. She holds her hand out. Merlin smiles and allows her to help him up.

“Come,” she says firmly. “We have plucked enough flowers. Let’s return early from our errands and split a sweetbread from the baker. I won’t tell Gaius.”

Merlin beams. “A perfect plan, Queen Guinevere.”

Gwen splutters. “Queen?”

Merlin’s heart beats fast. Oops. Then he shrugs. “Queen of my heart, at least.”

Gwen lets out a delighted laugh. “Oh, Merlin,” she says, shaking her head.

The two head towards the lower town.

“Is now a good time to mention that I came out here hoping to find you?” Gwen asks suddenly.

Merlin’s eyes brighten. He grins, leaning in so their shoulders bunch. “I think in a way, I came out here hoping to find you, too.”

Gwen’s nose crinkles. “That doesn’t make any sense, Merlin.”

Merlin nods. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”

“I promise—” Gwen hesitates. Merlin waits, and she takes it as permission to continue on. “Merlin, I promise, whatever it is you’re going through, it will be okay. It was a hard year. It’s okay to be… Struggling. We’ll all help you get back to how you were.”

Merlin feels a gratitude so deep, it seeps into his magic. He has to swallow hard and fight back to keep it from reaching out to Gwen, the magic is so touched.

“What if…” Merlin trails off.

Gwen glances at him. They’re approaching the edge of the wood now, and the houses of the lower town are visible.

Merlin knows the second they leave the coverage of the trees, all his bravery will go away.

He rushes forward. “What if this is who I am now? What if I’m just… What if going back isn’t an option?”

“Merlin.”

Gwen stops. Merlin does, too. He can’t look up. Beneath their feet is just dirt. There’s no grass in sight, too long stomped over by feet and hooves and carts.

“Merlin, you are my dear, dear friend. And you know what?”

Merlin’s head snaps up.

Gwen’s expression is soft. “You will always be enough for me.”

Then, because she is a very good friend, Gwen begins walking again, not lingering in the moment. Merlin trails just a bit behind her, trying to quell his once again swelling emotions.

Inside of him, something is growing. Merlin’s stomach flips and his heart picks up speed. The fondness he felt earlier is now so strong, he can barely recognize it.

He nudges at the feeling, the twist of his gut and the thickness of his throat, until it finally settles into him.

He stumbles, and Gwen shoots him a bemused grin. She’s bathed in sunlight, as beautiful as the queen she was once.

And Merlin knows what it is that has changed—a realization so important, he felt it in his bones before he could even begin to name.

Family.

For the first time in two thousand years, Merlin has someone who is family.

Chapter Text

Merlin watches from the doorway while Arthur speaks to his father.

There’s a complicated feeling in his chest. It’s a bit like eating too much sugar and a bit like watching the love of your life die. It’s absolute fury, but it’s also guilt.

Uther Pendragon is a man Merlin has spent two thousand years aching to forget. He managed, in small ways. He forgot the sound of his voice and the shape of his face and the specifics. But he hasn’t, not once, forgotten the genocide. He hasn’t forgotten, not once, the hatred and the flames and the cosmic weight of death. Nor, unfortunately, has he forgotten the snide comments and sharp glares and withering disappointment the man had levied his only son with.

Apparently, however, Arthur has forgotten.

Perhaps it hasn’t all happened yet.

Merlin thinks regardless enough has happened.

Arthur sits bowed before his father, his king, with such sorrow on his face.

Merlin feels that horrible feeling again and looks away. He tries not to listen in as Arthur relays the day to his father.

He’s feeling much more situated in the past. Arthur has started to relax around him, a little bit. Merlin feels as if he’s making headway on proving to himself that he deserves this second chance. And every day, he remembers one more small thing. Today, he hasn’t remembered anything, but he’s hoping that tonight’s memory will be about Arthur. He’s finding that those memories are his favorite.

He learned this morning that Arthur loves soft boiled eggs. He’s not sure if he knew that in the past. He learned it because he served them to Arthur himself—him, as he is today, with his own hands and eyes and memory-keeping-abilities—and Arthur had been so pleased. His jaw had looked sharper, his eyes brighter, and his ribbing had been at medium intensity all the rest of the morning.

So Arthur likes soft boiled eggs. Merlin loves that.

Arthur stands up, hesitating beside his father. He clasps a hand down on the man’s shoulder before walking away. Merlin knows well enough, memories or not, to look away before Arthur catches him staring.

Arthur walks the short path to his own chambers, and Merlin keeps up pace. He smiles at the chambermaid he passes, Drea, who rolls her eyes kindly at him. Merlin wonders about the story there.

“Merlin,” Arthur’s voice commands his attention instantly.

“Yes, sire?” He closes the door behind them, locking it into place out of habit. Arthur raises his brow at it but says nothing as he collapses into the chair at his dining table.

“Wine,” he demands.

Merlin smirks. “If you’re offering…” He sneaks a hand over to a spare goblet.

Arthur smacks the back of his hand instantly. “I wasn’t.”

Merlin snickers. He pours Arthur wine, and then stands with his hands behind his back.

Arthur is silent for a very long while.

Merlin kind of likes it. He likes how peaceful it can be to be around Arthur. Sure, they quip and joke and talk. And there is tension sometimes—like after the training session that Merlin nearly wept at, Arthur had been short and disparaging for a whole day. But mostly, it’s easy.

After so many years on his own, Merlin had forgotten that being around someone else could feel easy. Could feel as natural as being alone.  

He scans his memory—the parts of it he still has, at least. He can’t remember anyone else feeling like this. There’s a blip of a soul, somewhere in the early 15^th century that he remembers caring for deeply. But their face is as obscure to him as Arthur’s was two weeks ago.

Thinking of this makes Merlin soften a little. He looks at Arthur, missing him from just a few feet away. He pushes it down as best he can before he goes and tidies up Arthur’s bed. Without a word, his magic pulses through his hands, warming the sheets and blankets that he knows Arthur will slide into soon. To cover for that, he goes over to tend the fire.

“Merlin, come here,” Arthur demands.

Merlin, still feeling soft, acquiesces immediately.

Arthur gestures. Merlin’s eyes wide, and he scrambles to sit in the seat Arhtur had pointed to. There’s no wine being offered, but Merlin is still pleased by this small olive branch.

But then Arthur doesn’t say anything, just stares at him. He places a hand on his chin, thumb up against his bottom lip. His blond hair is a bit long, but not so long it’s curling at the edges. His eyes are bright again.

Merlin can’t remember why Arthur wears that ring on his thumb. It hurts him, a little, that the knowledge is gone. It hurts him more to think that Arthur died without having ever told him.

Fear—hot like fire—shoots through him.

He will not lose Arthur again. That much, Merlin knows.

His magic flares again, and Merlin has to clamp down on it like biting his tongue. It hurts in a similar way—it’s instant and awful and difficult to explain and aggravating. He has to keep doing it, over and over, as his magic thrashes around inside of him, wanting to whisk Arthur into its arms or into a safety spell or maybe a magic bubble that makes Arthur impenetrable.

“Is there something you’ve been wanting to tell me?” Arthur finally offers.

The truth is, Merlin isn’t sure. He’s gotten a basic run down from Gaius about what’s been happening in Camelot since Merlin arrived—Arthur is crown prince, yada yada, there was a round table of knights because Morgana stole Camelot, yada yada, Uther almost married a troll, incredible, incredible—but the specifics of Merlin’s internal life were, apparently, a complete blank for Gaius.

So maybe pre-Merlin’s-consciousness-being-replaced he did want to tell Arthur. There’s just no way to know.

His magic is still right there, thrumming away, wanting to touch Arthur’s face.

“What do you think it is?” Merlin tries, swallowing back his pain at his phantom tongue bite.

Arthur throws a hand down, exasperated. “Ugh,” he says. And Merlin nearly laughs. “Just go, Merlin. You’re dismissed.”

Merlin nods, scampering away. He leaves the room quickly. His magic is angry about it, but he holds it in well enough. The farther he gets from Arthur, the less it tries to escape him.

By the time Merlin makes it back to his and Gaius’s quarters, his magic is at a normal level of annoyance. It still wants out, and wants free, but it’s no longer threatening to do it against his will.

It’s strange, being back here. The magic is so… Powerful. It’s everywhere. The earth itself is saturated. Merlin has grown powerful his time away from Camelot. But here, it’s like everything is dialed up to a ten.

Merlin thinks if he could remember who his enemies actually were, they’d be toast.

“Merlin! You’re home early!” Gaius exclaims, standing up as Merlin lets himself in.

Merlin nods. “Annoyed Arthur so bad I got the evening off,” he brags.

Gaius frowns, instantly serious. “Be careful, Merlin,” he warns in that ominous way he has. “You don’t want to make the Prince suspicious.”

“Yeah, yeah, magic time travel reveal equals flaming spectacle of a death, I remember.” Merlin waves a hand dismissively. “Ooh, is that soup I smell?”

Gaius heaves out a sigh so dramatic, Merlin says he should win an Oscar.

“What’s an Oscar? Oscar who? Is he one of the knights?” Gaius immediately questions.

Merlin serves their dinner and asks as many questions about Gaius’s patients as he can to distract him

Merlin’s halfway through a soup made mostly of turnips when he remembers that there’s a dragon.

He’s so startled by this memory that he drops his spoon, and the filmy broth goes everywhere. He apologizes, jolting forward for a cloth to wipe up his mess, only to overturn the water pitcher.

Gaius sighs, so long and put out, that Merlin has no choice but to lower himself back to the bench and stare owlishly and sheepishly at his guardian.

It feels strange, having a guardian.

Merlin hasn’t been Gaius’s age in so long, he doesn’t even remember being that young. He has more life experience than basically anyone in Gaius’s entire lineage. Yet when the old man’s brow lifts in a furry display of exasperation, Merlin feels about sixteen years old.

It’s remarkable, really.

“Sorry, Gaius,” Merlin offers.

Gaius nods, already mopping the water up with a bundle of cloth. Merlin wants to help, but when he reaches out, Gaius shoots him a withering stare, so Merlin just sits on his hands.

“You’ve had a busy day,” Gaius says, almost to himself.

Merlin shrugs. It was hectic. He had chores (and more chores) and training (and more chores) and a counsel meeting that he wasn’t allowed to share opinions in (then more chores). But it wasn’t a bad day. Merlin is starting to get the hang of things around here. He only walked into the wrong room twice today.

“Is there a dragon?” Merlin asks.

Gaius’s brows shoot up. “Yes…” He says haltingly, which Merlin has learned means that Gaius has actually been hoping Merlin wouldn’t ever remember this tidbit.

Merlin nods. “I’m starting to remember him, I think.”

Gaius sighs again, setting down the wet rags. “That makes sense,” he allows.

Merlin disagrees. “What does?”

“That your memories of the Great Dragon are returning,” Gaius continues. “As your magic gets used to… Where it is.”

“You were going to say when,” Merlin teases.

Gaius settles him with an unamused stare. “It’s quite serious, Merlin.”

Merlin sighs. “I’m sure it is.” He stabs his spoon back into the bowl of soup. He misses the food he ate before he was a blade of grass. He can’t even begin to explain it to anyone so even if he could tell everyone in Camelot that he’s not their Merlin, he’s a Merlin who is a bit older and madder, he wouldn’t be able to articulate what the hell a Taco Bell is.

“Merlin,” Gaius says gently. “It is of the utmost importance that you do not see the Great Dragon.”

Merlin blinks a few times, the gears turning in his head before he looks up. His spoon falls again. “I can see him?”

Gaius’s frown is instant. “No.”

“Liar,” Merlin gasps. He throws himself off the bench and onto the hard floor in front of the fire. Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, humming softly.

“Merlin!” Gaius scolds in exasperation.

“Shh,” Merlin says from the corner of his mouth. “I’m meditating to remember how to talk to the dragon.”

Gaius says something, but Merlin waves him off. He hums louder, trying to center his thoughts.

He pictures a dragon. He thinks it might be a dragon from a movie he watched once (will watch). He tries to get closer to it, stepping warily.

The dragon turns, opening its mouth to spray fire.

When it hits him, he laughs.

“What is wrong with him?” A voice cuts through Merlin’s meditation.

The dragon stops. When it looks at Merlin with big, gold eyes, it looks different—stronger, realer. It tilts its head, almost considering him, and Merlin feels a wave of familiarity so strong, it hits him in the chest like grief.

“Merlin? Are you alright?”

Then the dragon is gone.

Merlin huffs, concentration broken. He looks up and swallows back a scowl when he sees Lancelot standing beside Gwen, chewing on a chunk of bread.

“Hello,” he greets.

Lancelot beams. “Hello, Merlin.”

Gwen waves. Merlin waves back.

“Are you done, then?” Gaius asks wryly.

Merlin shoots him a glare.

Lancelot looks between them. “Done with what, Merlin?”

“Meditating,” Gaius answers at the same time as Merlin says, “Dragon hunting.”

“Dragon hunting?” Gwen exclaims.

Gaius spins, eyes so wide and angry Merlin thinks the poor man will keel over.

“In my mind,” Merlin elaborates.

“The Great Dragon?” Gwen clarifies, stepping closer. Her brows are pulled together, and Merlin sees that her lips are pressing together in concern.

“The one Arthur killed?” Lancelot says.

There’s a peculiar look in his eyes, similar to the one that Gaius wears.

Does Lancelot know about his magic then?

Almost delighted, his magic rises like water flowing up the stream. Merlin can’t stop it, but he does manage to convince it to not show itself completely. Instead, the magic reaches out towards Lancelot and seems to… Dance.

Lancelot’s eyes lighten and his brow raises. So he felt that. So he knows.

Merlin feels…

Fascination, first.

Why Lancelot? Merlin finds the man interesting and funny. He thinks their friendship is important. But important enough for the secret Gaius spends all day every day convincing him is deadly?

His next feeling is relief. He can’t see why Gaius wouldn’t tell him this. Merlin is going to immediately pull Lancelot into all of his plans. This is going to be so helpful! This is going to make finding answers—about dragons, Arthur’s food preferences, everything—so much easier.

Merlin glances at Lancelot’s amused, knowing look, and Gwen’s concerned, open expression. He thinks about the first thing he remembered when he awoke here was Lancelot’s hair. He thinks about Gwen’s earnest words the other day behind the lower town. He thinks about Gaius not changing the subject.

Then he thinks, oh, of course. They already know.

“Gaius won’t tell me why my magic knows a dragon, so I’m trying to remember the spell to talk to animals because that’s my best guess.”

For a brief moment, there’s nothing but staring.

Then, in simplest terms, all hell breaks loose.

Chapter Text

Merlin thinks, at the end of the day, people should be a little more forgiving of an honest mistake.

He thought everyone in the room knew about his magic. It was a reasonable thought! They certainly were acting as if they knew! And why would Merlin ever have lied to Gwen in the first place? He runs through the memories he has of her—few though they are, they are meaningful, and she looks at him with such understanding, such a knowing gaze in all of them. How could she not know?

Someone—Gaius in particular—should have told him that she didn’t know.

The three of them, though, look particularly awful. Devastated, annoyed, afraid—the expressions on their faces are multifaceted, and Merlin is starting to feel a bit guilty.

“My bad?” He offers.

No one replies. Merlin sighs.

Gwen stares owlishly at Merlin, her bottom lip quivering. Lancelot’s arms are wrapped around her. What was once him holding her from running turned into a hug and now it’s… Whatever the hell that is. An embrace is the only thing Merlin can think to name it. He wonders if his two dear friends are dearer to each other than he thought.

Gaius is scowling so deeply, he looks as if he might start screaming again. Instead, it seems he’s using all his fury to mash herbs into a paste. He muttered something about a headache and stormed over to his work station. He’s still muttering but Merlin is tuning him out as best he can.

“So… So… So this is why you’ve been different?” Gwen says.

Merlin’s stomach does an interesting flip. “I’m…”

Gwen’s eyes snap to his, and the slightly scared look on her face morphs into something furious. “Merlin, if you are thinking about lying to me again, I will ready a horse and ride to Ealdor tonight. I will bring your mother back with me by dawn.”

His lips twitch. “I certainly don’t want that.”

“Merlin,” Gaius warns.

Merlin doesn’t look at his guardian.

“Merlin, please. I—I think I deserve answers.”

Suddenly, a memory returns to him. He feels it blossoming inside of his ribcage.

Her hair is tied up in a low knot, and she’s wearing a red dress that’s faded and dirty. She’s on the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks. She’s being accused of sorcery.

Merlin remembers the feeling of that day—the dread, the guilt, the panic. He remembers how much he loved her that day. Then he remembers how much he loves her right now today.

“You’re right, Gwen,” he says softly. Her eyes brighten, the tension around her mouth lessening. “But I might not have all the answers you want.”

Gwen breaks free from Lancelot’s grip. He reaches for her again, but lets his fingers just skim the top of her arm, not pulling her back.

Merlin stays where he is, rooted to the floor. The fire behind him is warm. Gwen coming towards him is warmer.

“Then grant me the answers you can.”

Merlin nods.

“Merlin, please, I beg of you, do not—”

“Gaius.” Merlin interrupts, voice firm. “She already knows. Also she’s… She’s Gwen!”

He gestures to her. Gwen offers Gaius a tight smile.

Gaius rubs his temples but doesn’t say anything else.

Merlin holds out a hand. Gwen races over, and she hesitates just a moment, just long enough for Merlin’s heart to drop. But then she reaches out, sliding her hand warmly into his.

“Ask me,” Merlin murmurs. “And I will do my best.”

They sit on the floor in front of the fire. Slowly, Lancelot migrates over, sitting on the bench behind them.

“I… I do not know where to begin,” she admits, glancing behind her shoulder over to Lancelot.

He smiles reassuringly. Merlin frowns.

“I can start,” Merlin offers. “Lancelot, you already knew?”

Lancelot gives Merlin an absolutely baffled look.

Merlin shrugs.

Lancelot looks at Gaius before turning back to Merlin uncertainly.

“Do you… Merlin, I’m sorry, I am not sure what to say…”

Merlin looks at Gaius. “Do you want to join us before or after I make you want to strangle me?”

Gaius sighs and downs the tonic he’d been making. “Before.”

Gaius comes over. Lancelot shifts over, making plenty of room for Gaius to sit.

“I don’t have all my memories,” Merlin says suddenly. Gwen gasps and Lancelot’s eyes dart to his face. “It’s… Complicated.” He looks to Gwen. “I can’t answer so please don’t ask.”

She nods slowly. Lancelot looks between them and then turns to Merlin. “I do know of your magic,” he says, voice soft. There’s an earnest look in his eyes, but something deeper there, too, something that Merlin wishes he knew Lancelot well enough to discern.

“I knew there was something about you,” Merlin says kindly.

Lancelot beams. “I’ve known since we met,” he confesses, leaning in. “You saved my life.”

Merlin smiles. “I bet you saved mine, too.”

“I did!” Lancelot laughs.

Gwen glowers. “And no one thought to tell me, I see.”

Lancelot reaches for her hands, his expression immediately contrite. “I made a vow to Merlin before I ever laid eyes on you, Guinevere, but please know, my lies were never of ill-intent—”

“I understand,” Gwen interrupts, voice soft. “Even if I hate it.”

Lancelot looks away. Merlin takes pity on him. “Ask me what you wish to know, Gwen.”

She turns to him, contemplative. “Why did you learn magic?”

Merlin blinks rapidly. For some reason, he did not expect this question. He stumbles to answer quickly, lest she think he is hiding something. “My magic, Gwen—it’s not like the sorcerers you’ve seen.”

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Merlin was born with magic, Gwen,” Gaius says softly, hunching as he leans closer. “He could perform magic when he was only a babe.”

Gwen’s eyes fly to Merlin’s. “You never learned?”

He shook his head. “I never had a choice,” he agrees. “But I would not rid myself of it if I could.”

Her eyes search his. Merlin opens himself up to her scrutiny. After a brief moment, she nods.

“Tell me what it feels like,” she demands.

Merlin rolls his lips together, leaning back as he considers. He places his hands behind him, stretching out as he feels the magic inside of his blood.

The magic buzzes beneath his skin.

“How do you feel your lungs?” He asks her. “How do you feel your heart? Is it separate from you, when it aches for something you know you should not want? Love you wished you did not have, but feel all the same—is that your heart or is it you? How do you feel your stomach when it is empty, when the muscle cramps with need? Magic is not a language you learn, Gwen, it is a bone borne from a mother’s womb. It was with me from before I was alive.”

“Just a babe?”

Merlin inclines his head. “My mother said I made things move from my crib. What a fright that must have been for her.”

“Growing up just on the border…” Gwen’s chin wobbles as nods slowly. “You must have been so afraid.”

Merlin revels in the softness her words bring his heart. “I cannot say for certain.”

“What does that mean?” Lancelot questions.

“I’m remembering things… Slowly,” Merlin admits. “I’d like to remember faster, but all the grass I talk to is so tight lipped.”

Lancelot and Gwen glance at once another.

Gaius sighs heavily.

Merlin’s eyes narrow. “Yes, Gaius?”

“As I do not believe you will listen to my decades of experience and advice,” Gaius says scathingly, eyes sharp. “I suppose I might as well say this… The Great Dragon could have answers.”

Merlin’s heart skips a beat. “Why did you not say anything? All these weeks, I’ve been struggling—”

“Killgarah has his own intentions, Merlin, his own ambitions. It does not always align with what is best for Camelot. Or what is best for you.”

Merlin frowns.

“What about the Druids?” Gwen offers hesitantly.

Merlin’s eyes fly to hers. “Druids… They have magic.”

“Yes!” Gwen nods eagerly. “They are… Well, often considered benevolent, are they not, Lancelot?”

Lancelot nods. “Even… Even the King does not persecute them without cause.”

“Such as breathing the same air as him,” Gwen mumbles.

Merlin laughs loudly, grinning. “I hate the King.”

“Merlin!” Lancelot and Gaius gasp.

Gwen giggles. Merlin bumps her shoulder with his.

“So it’s decided. I’ll talk to the Dragon and maybe the druids. Which is a task that is totally doable for me apparently.” Merlin frowns. “Guys, I have no idea how to talk to the Dragon or the druids.”

“Leon was saved by the Druids,” Gwen says. Merlin’s jaw drops. “Perhaps he would know.”

“You cannot tell Leon,” Gaius interrupts. “Gwen is one thing, but the First Knight is far another.”

Gwen looks offended on Leon’s behalf. “He is a good man.”

“He is loyal to the king,” Lancelot says, surprisingly on Gaius’s side.

“As are you,” Gwen says, a furrow between her brow.

Lancelot’s eyes flicker to Merlin. He nods, just once, a tilt of his chin.

Merlin’s heart fills and fills. He reaches up, resting a hand on Lancelot’s knee. He nods, too.

“Dawn,” Merlin decides. “I’ll ride out and see what I can find.”

“I shall be with you,” Lancelot says lightly, but Merlin hears it for what it is.

He squeezes Lancelot’s knee.

A brown hand falls on top of his, falling hard enough to hurt. “I am coming, too.”

Merlin’s brows jump. “Gwen?”

“I will go with you,” she repeats.

Lancelot shakes his head immediately. “My lady, I do not know if it will be safe—”

“To hell with safe,” Gwen says sharply. Merlin laughs loudly at Lancelot’s scandalized expression. “Merlin is my friend, and he does not have memories! I—I—I do not understand this magic and I do not understand why Merlin doesn’t remember me, but I do know that I am not going to send him to a dragon all alone.”

Gaius and Lancelot look to Merlin. He holds his hands up. “Don’t look at me!” He says. “I’m on her side.”

She stands up, brushing her hands down her skirt. “Lancelot, I charge you with readying the horses. I will prepare provisions. Merlin,” she gives him a small grimace. “You must think of an excuse to give Arthur to explain our absence.”

Merlin groans. “Not fair. Can I do the horses instead?”

She shakes her head. “No. Now I bid you all a good night. I cannot lie to Arthur with any ability. I need time to digest this.” Then her expression softens, and she leans down, pressing her lips to Merlin’s cheek. She does not look at Lancelot, who sits just at Merlin’s peripheral with a wounded look on his face. “Thank you for your honesty, Merlin.”

They watch her go. Merlin waits until the door closes behind her before he turns to Gaius with a grin.

“I think that went well, don’t you?”

“Merlin,” he groans.

“Your memories are truly gone?” Lancelot asks.

“More like faded,” Merlin admits.

“Faded?” Lancelot’s brows pull together. He looks between Gaius and Merlin, confused. “I—I don’t understand.”

Merlin ignores Gaius saying his name again. “I have to trust someone, don’t I, Gaius?” He asks.

Gaius hangs his head.

“I will always be on Merlin’s side, Gaius, please help me understand.” Lancelot says earnestly.

Merlin nods. After a brief moment, Gaius nods, too. “Yes, my boy. I understand.”

“Two thousand years ago,” Merlin whispers, watching as Lancelot’s eyes grow wider and wider, saucers on his face. “I failed my mission to protect my friends and unite Albion.”

“Merlin…” Lancelot’s voice is gutted.

He gets to his knees, placing a hand on Lancelot’s shoulder. He smiles at his friend—because Lancelot is his friend. Merlin’s heart is full of love for the man, new and old.

“I’ve lived thousands of years alone, and now?” Merlin grins widely, and feels so at peace, he could be back in that field of grass. “The bitch is back.”

Chapter Text

When Merlin wakes up, it’s with an alertness that previously only a triple espresso had been able to conjure in him.

Today, Merlin is going to get his memories back.

He gets ready as quietly as he can, tiptoeing throughout his room as he packs a light bag. When he makes it to the main room, horrifyingly, Gaius is already up and waiting for him.

“Ahh!” Merlin screams, clutching his chest. “Gaius! You scared me!”

Gaius doesn’t say anything, but he waits patiently for Merlin’s blood pressure to go back down, so Merlin counts that as a win.

“Gaius, you should still be sleeping,” Merlin scolds lightly, bouncing down the stairs. He sits across from his guardian at the table, pulling a bit of bread off the loaf sitting between them.

Gaius looks as if he has not slept at all. There are bags under his eyes and a sorrowful expression on his face. “I wanted to see you off.”

Merlin’s mouth dries, suddenly struggling to swallow. He nods rapidly. “Thank you, Gaius.”

Gaius’s face is oddly open, vulnerable. Looking at him, Merlin feels simultaneously all his years and only a handful of them. Gaius seems young with this look on his face, even if he looks aged and tired because of Merlin.

“What will you tell Arthur?” Gaius asks, hands pressing together like he’s holding himself tightly.

Merlin shrugs. “I’ll think of something,” he offers with a smile.

Gaius smiles back. Merlin feels awful for how thin it is.

They stand, and Merlin puts his knapsack over his shoulder. Feeling a burst of affection, he surges forward, hugging the old man tightly.

“I will be careful, Gaius,” he promises. As he pulls back, he grins. “So long as you do, too.”

Gaius huffs a little, but there’s a pleased sort of smile on his face, and Merlin gives the man a kiss on the side of his forehead the one might give their child before he rushes out the door.

The castle is already awake, despite the early hour, as servants and guards rotate shifts and prepare for the morning. Merlin’s feet take him easily to Arthur’s chambers.

He’s found an odd sense of calm in walking the route to Arthur’s chambers. It’s familiar to him the way breathing is. Of course, he did this before, and he’s had a few weeks now to get used to it anew. But the path is also very similar to the one from his last cottage to the lake he liked to meditate at. It’s also similar to the route from a flat he had in Paris once and the local café. He wonders if he chose the lake and the café because of the way his feet felt so comfortable.

Arthur’s guards nod to him, not even eyeing his pack curiously. Merlin could never be a guard. Live a little, you know?

He pushes open the door, not bothering to knock.

On his bed, Arthur is laying awake, hands folded on his chest and eyes fixed on the canopy of his bed.

Merlin skids to a stop, letting the door slam shut behind him. Arthur startles at the sound, jerking forward, before a scowl takes over his face.

“Merlin!” He scolds.

Merlin steps forward a little. “Why are you just awake?” He scolds right back.

Arthur glares, sitting up in bed a little. “Why are you here on time?”

“Actually, I’m early.” Merlin drops his bag on Arthur’s table and then crosses the room, yanking open the curtains.

Arthur glances at the window before giving Merlin a frown. “Why?”

“I’m eager for work,” Merlin jokes, lighting a candle. He crosses over to the fireplace, stoking up a flame. He shoots Arthur a grin—see how fast that was?—and then pushes up, groaning. “Ugh, I am too old for this.”

“You are barely twenty summers, Merlin,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes.

Merlin laughs loudly. “Sure.”

“You are strange,” Arthur complains. He sits on the edge of the bed, arms rising up as he stretches.

Arthur’s long like this. The tip of his fingers almost touch the rich red canopy, the stretch of his muscle all the way down to his waist where his blankets pool. He’s got a dusting of blond hair across his chest, lighter than Merlin’s own hair. Merlin remembers Arthur’s body—he’s cleaned it, mended it, stitched it, soothed it with salve. As Arthur’s manservant, as Arthur’s protector, Merlin used to know almost every inch of Arthur.

This, however, is the first time Merlin has gotten a really good look at him since he’s returned. There are less scars than Merlin thinks there should be. That calms him a little. He can’t remember everything, but he remembers Arthur’s death, and he thinks there were several old scars on his body then that don’t exist yet. Merlin has time.

But he needs his memories. Not just because they’re his and he misses his friends and they miss him—but because Arthur is missing scars, and Merlin needs to keep it that way.

“You’re getting stranger,” Arthur says, face scrunched as he slowly lowers his arms.

Merlin shrugs. “Sorry. Why are you awake?” Merlin crosses back over to Arthur, putting the back of his hand on Arthur’s forehead. “Are you sick? How are you feeling?”

“Merlin, I’m fine.” Arthur swats his hand away, scowling. He stands up, pulling himself to his full regal height, and Merlin frowns. “I just awoke early, that’s all.”

“Liar,” Merlin mutters.

Arthur splutters, glaring. “You have no sense of decorum. Do I have to remind you—”

“To mind myself, no, no,” Merlin ducks down and catches Arthur’s eyes. “Let me check you over.”

“No,” Arthur replies petulantly. He stomps over to the dining table and then stops, lips pressing together. “Uh, Merlin?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s no breakfast.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, sire.”

“Is this your bag?” Arthur asks, poking at Merlin’s knapsack like it might bite him.

“Very astute, sire,” Merlin confirms.

Arthur glares. “Is my breakfast in your bag?”

“No, sire.”

Arthur throws his hands up, turning and leaning against the table. “Care to explain?”

“Must I?” Merlin tries giving him a winning smile.

Arthur is unamused. “Yes.”

Merlin sighs. “I’ve always considered you a benevolent leader.”

Arthur’s eyes roll to the ceiling. “Get to the point, Merlin.”

“I need a day off.”

His eyes snap to Merlin.

Merlin hurriedly adds, “Two, actually. Three tops. Though four would be best—”

“Merlin.”

Merlin mimes zipping his lips. Arthur looks baffled. Merlin belatedly remembers there aren’t zippers yet.

“Why do you need a day—”

“Or four!” Merlin pipes in.

“Or four… away from your duties?” He crosses his arms, frowning.

And even though Arthur is barefoot and shirtless, his hair sticking up and his chambers barely lit, he looks regal. Authoritative. Kingly.

The sun is ever so slightly starting to peel up from the windows. Arthur’s expression is annoyed, but it’s such a mask, Merlin barely has to look for a second to see the real concern beneath his loftiness.

Arthur looks so young. He’s got sleep in the corner of his eyes. His lips are pulled together, like he’s trying hard not to pout. There’s one piece of hair towards the back of his head that is somehow completely vertical, and if Merlin doesn’t tell him, he might just leave his chambers to command the kingdom with it still sticking up.

Merlin loves him.

It’s simple and real. Merlin loves Arthur, and this man, whether he is already or just was before, is his king.

So Merlin does the thing he knows how to do the very best. He pledges fealty to Arthur.

“Come with me,” he says, stepping forward. He holds his hands out.

Arthur’s mouth parts, eyes widening in surprise. His arms fall to his side. “Where?”

“Can’t say,” Merlin admits with a wink. He shrugs. “Don’t know.”

“Then why are you going?”

Merlin takes another step towards his king. “I have to go, Arthur, there are answers I seek. Would you like to come with me?”

Arthur looks incredulous. “I—I am the Crown Prince, Merlin. I run this kingdom, if you’ve forgotten. I can’t just—go.”

Merlin would feel defeated by this, but he’s had several centuries to slodge off work, and honestly, nothing all that bad has ever happened.

“What if you did though?” He counters.

Arthur laughs, seemingly surprised. “What about the counsel? What about the knights?”

“What about,” Merlin says, and this time he does reach out, does grab Arthur by the wrist. “Adventure?”

Arthur’s eyes light up.

Merlin tugs harder on that thread. “What about surprises? Don’t you want to know why Gwen and Lancelot are waiting outside the citadel right now with horses and provisions?”

Arthur swallows. His eyes dip towards the window before coming back to Merlin’s face, searching his.

“What about friendship?”

“Friendship?” Arthur repeats, and if this was two thousand years ago, Merlin would be hurt by his tone of voice. But Merlin knows a little bit about the loneliness of a man with power now. He knows a bit more than Arthur, in fact.

So if anything, Merlin’s eyes and voice and hand soften, even with the ghost of pain. “Friendship, Arthur. What about that?”

Arthur stares at Merlin. His blue eyes are brighter than the sky right now, which still tinges darkly out the chamber windows. His mouth is open, like he wants to say something, like he’s about to, but his throat is bobbing, and Merlin can see his pulse dancing beneath his skin.

Merlin’s magic is so at peace, Merlin thinks he could start floating any minute.

“You aren’t telling me something,” Arthur finally says.

Merlin inclines his head. “Never going to find out if you stick to your castle walls and routine, are you, sire?”

Arthur’s lips twitch. He pulls away from Merlin.

Merlin lets his hand fall limply. But he doesn’t give up—instead, he raises his brow. A challenge.

Arthur looks out the window again. Without looking back at Merlin, he sighs. “This journey of yours, it will take two days.”

“Might take long—”

“Two days,” Arthur commands. He turns on his heel, towards his closet. He dresses so quickly, Merlin doesn’t even have a chance to make fun of him for doing it himself. “That’s as long as I can be away from the counsel.”

Merlin beams.

Tentatively, Arthur grins back.

“Pack my belongings,” he says as he shoves his feet into his boots, lacing them quickly. “I will go alert Sir Leon that we are going on a hunt.”

“Meet by the stables?” Merlin suggests, tightly holding his magic as it aches to throw open Arthur’s cupboard and pack his clothes itself.

“I give the orders, Merlin,” he says dryly.

Merlin nods. “Of course, sire.” He waits a beat, then adds. “You should probably grab something to eat from the kitchens as well. I’m not sure what Gwen has packed.”

“Why is Guinevere a part of this?” Arthur asks, slapping his knees as he stands up, fully dressed.

Merlin grins at him. That stubborn hair still sticks up. If Merlin were still a blade of grass, he thinks he could wax poetry about it for at least a month.

“Impatience,” he says in his best Gaius voice. “Will get you nowhere faster.”

Arthur laughs again. His eyes are as bright as the day they met.

“There’s something about you, Merlin,” he says, shaking his head. “I never can quite puzzle you out.”

“Well, what would be the fun in that?” Merlin winks, and he begins throwing clothes haphazardly in Arthur’s rucksack.

Arthur shakes his head again, looking as if he wants to say something. But then he just smiles, a rare real one, the kind that Merlin has missed so dearly that he spent centuries wandering the earth, meeting billions hoping that just one of them would be able to rival this smile.

No one could.

He smiles back, and Arthur, somehow, seems equally as pleased.

“Meet me by the stables,” Arthur commands, before turning on his heel and leaving his chambers.

“Oi! I just said that!” Merlin calls loudly.

Arthur’s bright, honest laughter rings in Merlin’s ears long after Arthur’s gone.

He grins the whole time he packs Arthur’s bag. By the time he’s got both bags ready to go and is skipping down the grand staircase, he feels lighter than he has in his whole long life.

Today, Merlin is getting his memories back.

And Arthur is going to be there when he does.

Chapter Text

Merlin meets Arthur at the stables after fifteen minutes. The Prince is already there, a horse readied and a scowl on his face.

“You’re late!” Arthur immediately complains.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “It’s my quest, I can’t be late.”

“You’re forgetting, Merlin,” Arthur says, that signature sarcastic grin on his face. “I’m the Prince.”

“Don’t those words ever lose their meaning? Like when you say the word spoon too many times.” Merlin tugs on the horse’s saddle, checking it over. Arthur has the audacity to look offended. Merlin pets the mane of the horse, nodding with satisfaction. He tucks Arthur’s pack safely on the horse. “Let’s go.”

“What about your horse?” Arthur asks, searching the stalls with his eyes.

Merlin shakes his head. “Gwen and Lancelot have him already,” Merlin reminds him. “I’m to meet them on foot.”

Arthur sighs but politely doesn’t mount his horse. He steps beside Merlin, holding the lead, and the two begin to walk down the cobblestone street.

It’s nice. For the first time since Merlin got back, Arthur has put them on equal footing. This is not just Merlin pilfering wine from his table. It’s Arthur, walking a path slowly just because it’s the only pace Merlin can go.

A part of him, small and hidden like an organ, is afraid.

He knows it’s the nerves of changing the past. The fear of not listening to the advice of those who love him. The terror of being seen, wholly, and rejected. Merlin’s fears are not for his life. Even if he could die, he would not fear Arthur’s blade—Arthur is too righteous of a man to kill another for being born, even if Arthur himself doesn’t know that yet.

No, Merlin is not afraid of the blade or the gallows or the pyre. Perhaps he should be—Gaius would certainly encourage it.

But instead, Merlin is afraid of failing.

He has failed Arthur, his friends, his kin, so many times. He has failed them in ways that they’ve never known. He’s failed himself. He’s failed magic.

But things are different. Merlin himself is different. He can only hope that that means his mistakes, and his failures, will be different.

Arthur catches his eyes, an easy smile on his face, and Merlin vows that it will be.

As they make their way through the citadel, they catch a few stares. A few people wave, most of the guards staring curiously at their Prince and his manservant leaving with one horse at the crack of dawn, but no one says anything.

“Why are you sneaking out of the castle?” Arthur asks, pitching his voice low and almost conspiratorially. “Instead of just meeting at the stables all together?”

Merlin’s heart flies. “It’s more fun that way?”

Arthur laughs. Merlin beams at him, ducking his head to hide his smile.

The streets are mostly empty. Merlin probably could have gotten out of the citadel without anyone even noticing him if he hadn’t brought along a celebrity and his horse.

But then Merlin spies Arthur’s expression, free of stress and concern, and Merlin doesn’t regret his choice.

“Lancelot and Gwen are going to be apoplectic,” Merlin muses.

Arthur’s brow raises, his lips twitching. “At my presence?”

Merlin nods. “It was a secret mission, you see.”

“Secret from me?”

Merlin nods again. Arthur’s lips twitch down. Merlin remembers a second too late that’s the bad direction.

“Why would you be keeping secrets from me?” Arthur asks, sounding surprisingly wounded.

Merlin can think of about a thousand reasons, not the least of which is Arthur’s proclivity to throwing things when he doesn’t like the information he’s given. But Merlin can see the Prince is feeling a bit delicate this morning, and he is being very brave leaving the castle while his father could at any moment wake up from his dissociative state and berate him for doing so. So Merlin doesn’t mention the throwing or the beheading or any of the very good reasons Merlin keeps secrets.

Instead he shrugs. “More fun that way,” he teases.

Arthur scoffs, but his expression stays light, so Merlin counts it as a win.

They walk in companionable silence. Merlin lets it wash over him the way he might water in a creek. There’s something warm and familiar about it, like he could press his fingers into the mud of this quiet. Arthur’s shoulders are relaxed, and his smile lingers even on a blank face.

The sun is brightening their path, and Merlin thanks it like a prayer.

“I’m never down here this early,” Arthur confesses as they enter the lower town. He looks around, his eyes wide. There’s a bustle to the waking lower town. The smells of breakfast, the sound of families, the chill of the morning air. Everything is fresh and everything is alive. Merlin relishes in it.

“Neither am I,” he admits. Then, with a grin, he adds, “Always too busy waking your lazy bones up!”

Arthur scoffs again, completely heatless. He doesn’t even bother replying, too busy watching a small child play with marbles curiously.

Then, a little bit out of the way behind the smithy, Merlin spies Gwen’s hair. He points, and Arthur nods, carefully maneuvering the horse through the thin dirt alley available.

Merlin puts a finger to his lips. Arthur rolls his eyes, but obediently stops walking. Merlin tiptoes over. Neither Lance nor Gwen are looking at him. Perfect.

Leaning in, Merlin grins widely, and then shouts:

“Morning!”

Gwen jumps high, cursing in a delightfully unladylike way, and Merlin breaks into a fit of laughter.

“Merlin, that was unkind—” Gwen stops, jaw dropping. Her eyes widen like saucers. “Your Highness! I—I, hello. I mean! What are you doing here? No... I mean, isn’t it early for you to be awake? Or… Merlin? Help?”

“Gwen is saying good morning, sire,” Merlin fake whispers to Arthur.

Arthur, incapable of giving Gwen a look any harsher than indulgent, just smiles. “Good morning, Guinevere.”

“Good morning, my lord,” Gwen replies automatically. Her eyes dart from Merlin to Arthur a few times, her expression tight and worried. Behind her shoulder, Lancelot is frozen.

“Buttercup!” Merlin says brightly, turning to greet his horse. He was far too out of it when he originally came back to appreciate how beautiful his stead is, let alone how much he missed her. Thus far, he hasn’t had a reason to take his horse out again. He pets the horse, wishing that horses purred like cats.

“Sire, what are you doing out here…?” Lancelot finally manages to participate in the conversation. Merlin glances up in surprise. He pegged Lancelot for mute for another ninety seconds at least.

“I imagine the same as you, Sir Lancelot,” Arthur replies, a brow raised.

Merlin hides his smile at Arthur’s tone.

Dutifully, Lancelot blushes. “I apologize, sire, I did not expect you to be… Joining us…”

Gwen still looks panicked. Lancelot’s mind is clearly scheming.

“Yes!” Gwen adds. “On our trip! To…—”

“Merlin’s mother’s.”

“Hunting.”

They look at each other in horror.

Merlin takes pity on his friends.

“I invited him,” he offers.

Three heads swivel.

“You invited him?” They say in unison, while Arthur says, scandalized, “You invited me?”

“I am the Prince, Merlin, I do not need an invitation to go anywhere in my kingdom,” Arthur continues, lifting his chin.

Merlin ignores him. “I invited Arthur to join us on our quest.” He elaborates because Gwen and Lance still look baffled.

Lancelot looks between them, his brows pulled together. “But… Why?”

“Uh, I’m standing right here.” Arthur raises a hand in offense.

“Because he’s our friend,” Merlin says softly. “And I think that qualifies him.”

Lancelot’s eyes soften. Gwen’s, however, harden. She grabs Merlin by the elbow and yanks him aside.

Aside, here, is about two feet away from the horses, so it’s not like they’re getting much privacy. But Merlin appreciates the effort.

“Merlin, are you quite sure?” Gwen asks, voice pitched low.

He nods. “Arthur’s great at adventure, and the point of this adventure is—”

“Merlin!”

“—Friendship.”

At this, Gwen pauses. Her lips and brows pull together. Merlin waits for her appraisal.

He knows it’s likely because he remembers Gwen more than anyone else, but Merlin trusts Gwen. Not just in his mind—his heart trusts her. It’s steady and firm, the way one trusts that the ground will be beneath them whether their eyes are closed or not.

He can’t, not for the life of him—and for him, that’s a lot—figure out why he hadn’t told her the first time he was here.

Why had he lied to Gwen? Why hadn’t he trusted her? He can feel it. He trusts her, really trusts her. What could possibly have prevented him?

“Are we done deliberating if I’m permitted to travel with my servant?” Arthur interrupts, clearly exasperated.

Merlin glances over, intent to roll his eyes, but the sun is drawing up behind Arthur’s head. It frames him like a crown.

Arthur is bathed in golden light. His grin is wide, his expression the cool confidence that one would expect from a future king. But his eyes are a little tight, insecurity clear within the blue depths. He is embarrassed, Merlin can see, and he feels unwanted.

Merlin knows how he could have denied his love for Gwen. How he could have denied his love for all of his friends, for his own morals, for his own knowledge of magic and righteousness.

Everything in Merlin’s life is so pale compared to Arthur.

But Merlin never trusted him either. Not really. Not enough.

Today, things change.

“We are, sire,” Merlin says, not looking away from his king. “You have the peasants’ permission to come with us.”

Gwen doesn’t say anything else, though the concern remains evident on her face. Lancelot looks downright terrified, but he climbs onto his horse anyway.

Merlin hops into Buttercup’s saddle. He shifts a little, twitching. He has to get used to this again—build up the muscles.

“Shall we go?” He offers the group a grin.

Arthur’s ontop of his horse now, too. Without his armor or cape, he looks remarkably… Regular. Merlin loves him all the more.

“Where are we going?” He asks.

Lancelot’s horse goes beside Arthur’s. “Truthfully, sire, that much I do not know either.”

“Nor me,” Gwen admits.

“Me neither!” Merlin adds. Three heads swivel to him. Merlin shrugs. “What?”

“Merlin, how do you not know where your own quest is heading?” Arthur complains.

“I’m motivated by instinct and blind faith, Arthur.”

“Great, so we’ll all be dead by sundown.”

“Sooner if we leave you in charge, my lord.”

Arthur and Lancelot laugh. Even Gwen’s lips twitch.

“How did this group get formed?” Arthur asks. “No offense, Guinevere, but I am surprised by your inclusion.”

Merlin smiles. “It was formed by instinct and blind faith,” he repeats.

As they reach the large grass field separating the citadel and lower town from the woods beyond, Merlin’s chest begins to open with relief he didn’t know he needed. In a few short minutes, he’ll be back in nature with three of the people his soul loves and reveres the most. He’ll be on his way to reuniting himself with his memories. He’ll be closer to telling Arthur the truth.

He’ll be closer to a happy ending that has evaded him for far, far too long.

“Did friendship compel you to invite him, too?” Lancelot asks suddenly, drawing Merlin away from his thoughts.

“Invite who?” Merlin asks, looking around.

Then he spies him.

At the treeline, Gwaine is sitting astride a large brown horse, his clothes casual and non-descript. Merlin can’t help it—he scowls.

“No,” he mutters darkly.

Lancelot and Gwen exchange a look. Arthur glares at him.

“You’re being awfully rude to Gwaine lately,” Arthur comments.

Merlin sighs. “My prerogative.”

Arthur slows his horse, nodding meaningfully at Gwen and Lance.

Merlin swallows a hard sigh. Gwen hurries hers along to match Lancelot’s pace, leaving him alone with Merlin. He whispers for her to come back, but Gwen, the traitor, continues forward anyway.

Arthur puts their horses as close together as seemingly possible without running into each other. Merlin prepares himself for a very well-meaning but obnoxious speech.

“If he’s done something… Untoward or offensive, Merlin, I would like to know.” He says, soft and earnest. “It was your judgement that made me consider him to be my knight, Merlin. I haven’t forgotten.”

Merlin’s frostiness melts. “As always, Arthur, you manage to surprise me.”

If anything, Arthur looks more confused.

“Gwaine did nothing wrong,” Merlin admits. Gwen and Lancelot are lingering a few yards away.

Gwaine waves. Lancelot waves back.

It’s sad.

Merlin sighs heavily. “Gwaine,” he calls.

Immediately, Gwaine and his horse come barreling forward. When he stops, the five of them make a little circle. Their horses shift from foot to foot, unsteady.

Merlin looks the man over. He looks… Taut. Like a bow’s string, he’s holding himself tightly.

Arthur coughs. Gwaine’s eyes don’t leave Merlin.

“Hi, Merls,” he says, voice firm.

Merlin inclines his head. “Hey, Gwaine. Why are you here?”

Gwaine nods, as if to himself. “I am here to offer my services, if you need them.”

In his peripheral, Merlin can see the others having a silent conversation—exaggerated eyebrows, mouthing words, hand gestures that don’t really convey anything.

Merlin trusts his trio. And his trio says that he trusts Gwaine. Just because the memories are locked away somewhere doesn’t mean they’re not true.

“How’d you know we’d be here?” he asks.

Gwaine’s eyes lighten, recognizing the question as a challenge—a test he can pass. “I saw you running through the corridors this morning earlier than usual. That, in addition to the fact that I overheard Gwen telling another servant she was going to be away for a few days, and Lancelot was at the stables requesting three horses be readied. The Princess is a surprise, though.”

“Glad we had something up our sleeves.”

Gwaine lifts a brow. When Merlin doesn’t say anything, a slow smile creeps on his face.

It’s… Familiar.

Merlin searches. He searches his mind and his heart. He remembers plates flying across the room. A short man pronouncing them strength and magic. Gwaine’s steadfast acceptance of that, not even asking a question—just raising a brow, as he is now.

A brow raised not in challenge, but in opportunity.

A grin that is more hope than cockiness.

He can’t remember the details.

But waiting for details is no way to live a life.

So Merlin gives in. “What do you know about the druids?”

“The druids!?” Arthur exclaims.

Merlin ignores him, nudging his horse forward. Gwaine eagerly matches pace with Merlin, and the two lead the group into the trees.

“I know a far bit from my travels, but I have not spent much time with them myself,” Gwaine says. “I know they’re a peaceful bunch, unless provoked.”

“I’ve heard that, too,” Merlin says.

“What is this about druids?” Arthur asks.

“Shh, they’re finally talking,” Gwen whispers.

Merlin glances up, and the sun is fully in the sky now. Dawn has risen. With four of the closest friends he’s had in almost two millennium, Merlin goes on an adventure.

Chapter Text

Two hours in, and Merlin’s so at peace, he might as well give up on the quest itself.

There are birds chirping and sunlight streaming through the leaves. Merlin feels more at ease in nature than he does in Camelot proper. He’s been in cities throughout time, and it’s not like he can say that nature stays entirely the same. Future companies, settlers, and climate change have affected these very woods. So it’s not so much that the nature is more familiar to Merlin. But his magic—it comes from nature, the way the sky does in a way, the way the rain does. His magic is so very pleased when it doesn’t have to hide.

Which, of course, it does. Only two of the four traveling with him know that he has magic. Merlin knows that to tell both Gwaine and Arthur right now, or worst yet, show them, would have terrible consequences. The kind of consequences he really doesn’t want to deal with when the weather is so nice and Gwen is giggling every few minutes!

Of course, he doesn’t know if he even wants to share his magic with Gwaine and Arthur. Gaius certainly thinks it is a bad idea. Merlin is not so afraid of the same things he was in the past, but he would be foolish to not have some hesitations. A long life has taught him that things rarely go the way one wants.

Merlin knows there are horrible things coming. He can’t remember what is happening—but he knows that even fifteen hundred years after Camelot is lost, Merlin still mourns her and all his friends. He knows it’s not bittersweet—it is just painful.

He needs his memories back first. Then he can decide how best to save everyone.

“Merlin, are you ever going to tell us where we’re going?” Arthur loudly complains.

Merlin is riding in front with Arthur beside him. Behind him, Gwen rides, and behind her, the knights take the rear. He could hear Gwaine and Lancelot chatting, Gwen occasionally piping in, but they all fall silent at Arthur’s question.

Merlin shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, popping the letters.

“This is ridiculous. There’s no quest if there’s no—no destination or prize!”

“Maybe the real quest were the friends we made along the way,” Merlin incorrectly quotes. No one understands. Merlin sighs heavily.

“As usual, Merlin, you make no sense.”

“As usual, Merlin, you make no sense,” Merlin repeats mockingly. Arthur rolls his eyes. Gwen giggles.

Gwaine also laughs from a few horses back. Merlin’s mood doesn’t even sour. See? Progress.

“How do you even know where to find the druids?”

“Arthur, be patient.” Merlin scolds lightly. “The druids will find us when it’s time.”

“So we’re just wandering around the woods until the druids deign to meet us?” Arthur exclaims, turning  around on his horse to glare at Merlin.

“Probably will take longer since you’re with us,” Gwaine says.

Merlin’s brows raise, but he nods. “The druids are unlikely to approach until they know what we want.”

“And how are we supposed to show them what we want?” Gwen asks, her voice light and curious.

Merlin has to bite hard on the inside of his cheek. He glances at her, and her brows furrow together before she squeaks a little. Yep, he thinks. That.

Lancelot clears his throat. “Perhaps we camp,” he offers, clearly trying to change the subject off Merlin’s lack of answer. “And after a while, they will see we mean no harm.”

“We’re close to the patrol,” Arthur says, frowning at the trees. “There is rarely a spotting of them this close.”

“So we ride farther,” Gwaine says firmly.

Merlin nods. “Anyone know any riding games?”

“Riding games?”

“Like… Eye Spy.”

“Eye Spy?” Gwaine repeats. Merlin glances back and sees confusion on his face. “I don’t know that one, mate.”

He hates how little he knows about Gwaine versus how much he knows about the game Eye Spy. “Here,” he offers kindly. “It’s simple. I say something I can see, and you guess.”

“If you tell us, won’t that ruin the surprise?”

Merlin frowns. “No, no. I’ll show you. I spy… With my little eye… Something green!”

Lancelot and Gwen exchange a glance. Arthur’s frowning.

“I don’t… I see green things, too?” Gwaine tries.

Merlin shakes his head. “You try to guess the green thing I saw.”

“The grass?” Arthur says dryly.

Merlin grins at him. “Very good, Arthur. Your turn.”

Arthur scoffs. They all turn expectantly.

“Really?” He raises his eyebrows. “You too, Guinevere?”

“It’s your turn, Arthur,” she explains.

Arthur’s lips twitch. He turns, looking around the trees and the rocks.  

 “I spy—”

“Bark!” Merlin shouts.

“Merlin—”

“Dirt! Horses! Gwaine!” Merlin’s voice raises with each guess.

“Merlin, I haven’t even said the color yet.”

“Oh, right.” Merlin mimes zipping his lips again. No one knows what he’s doing.

“I spy something blue.”

“The sky!” Merlin cries.

“Your own eyes,” Gwaine calls.

“Merlin’s eyes!” Gwen giggles.

Arthur grins at them. “Nope, you all lose.”

“Guinevere’s blouse,” Lancelot says softly.

Arthur’s face turns a bit pinker. He nods.

Lance smiles. It’s a sad little thing. “I win.”

Merlin gives him a thumbs up in congratulations. Lancelot doesn’t seem very pleased.

“Uh, your turn, mate,” Gwaine says after a weird silent beat.

Merlin’s confused.

He looks to Gwen. Her blouse is blue. It was a good guess.

Gwen’s frown is present, and Merlin wracks his scattered memories to figure out why.

She… hates the color blue?

That can’t be it.

The game tapers off after Gwaine gets a turn because his choice is too obscure for anyone to win—what color is puce, anyway?—and Merlin is too distracted trying to remember why that weird moment made Gwen sad.

“I want to ride with Gwen!” He announces.

Arthur’s affronted look is mirrored on Gwaine’s face.

“My quest, Arthur,” Merlin reminds him.

Arthur huffs. Merlin waits expectedly, pulling his horse over to a little clearing so that Lancelot and Gwaine can move forward. Gwen and Merlin take up the rear.

“Hi,” he whispers conspiratorially.

Gwen’s brows raise. “Hello, Merlin.”

“This is a weird group, right?”

Gwen smiles, ducking her head. “I will admit, I am surprised that you wanted more people to join us.”

Merlin nods. He stares at the three men in front of them, steady despite the way their horses all bounce them around. Lancelot and Gwaine are bantering in a way that makes Arthur grin, and Merlin warms more and warm to Gwaine.

“I was looking at him this morning, about to lie and I just…” Merlin shakes his head. “He’s Arthur.”

Merlin looks over, and Gwen is giving Arthur a very soft look. Her smile is almost demure. “Yes. He’s Arthur,” she repeats.

Merlin’s brows pull together. “I fear I’m missing something.”

Without looking at him, Gwen arches one perfect brow. “I fear you’re missing much more than one thing. Is that not the point of this ‘quest’?”

Merlin laughs loudly. Gwen grins, pleased.

“I have memories, but they are so unclear. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“A boyfriend?” Gwen repeats, confused yet scandalized.

Merlin frowns. Dial it back a few hundred years and… “Suitor,” he tries again. “Are you being courted? Or courting someone… Can women court? Court, the verb? Can you, Gwen, court—in the verb way—and if so, are you? And if yes, who?”

“Merlin!” Gwen giggles.

“Oh, tell me,” Merlin begs. “It is driving me crazy.”

Gwen sniffs, but her eyes are bright with mirth. “Hopefully by nightfall you will have your memories back,” she whispers.

Merlin leans in. “But,” he whispers back. “You could tell me now.”

Gwen shakes her head. “It is… Complicated. But no, I am not officially being courted.”

Merlin’s eyes widen. “That sounds like a yes. Okay, you don’t have to say anything, but is it…” Merlin raises his brows, dipping his chin, and looks pointedly at Lancelot.

“Merlin!” Gwen laughs.

“No?” He does the look again, but this time nods his head at Arthur.

Gwen is shaking with laughter. “Merlin, no.”

“It isn’t Gwaine, is it?” Merlin exclaims.

“Isn’t Gwaine, what?” Gwaine asks.

Gwen is laughing so hard, tears are springing to her eyes. She wipes them away.

Merlin grins. He wishes they were not all on top of horses. He would press a kiss to her forehead and hug her, his heart is so full.

“They were talkin’ about me!” Gwaine defends himself from Lancelot and Arthur. Gwen nearly doubles over, holding hard to the horn of her saddle as she laughs.

Merlin looks at all of them as hard as he can.

The bright sun covers them all in beautiful morning light. Gwaine’s grin is wide and infectious, a levity to him Merlin hasn’t seen before. Lancelot is gentle, his eyes soft and lovely. Arthur is looking at all of them with open affection, a rarity for this man. Gwen is happy and relaxed, something Merlin knows is rare for her. Merlin watches all of them, hears their laughter and the horses’ nickering, and everything inside of him wants to hold onto this forever.

This I won’t forget, he thinks hard. I won’t forget this moment, right here, these people, this love—no matter how many years pass, I won’t forget you.

It’s a beautiful moment. Truly, one of Merlin’s best in memory. Perhaps even best if he had all the memories to rank them against.

But then the morning is interrupted, the way it always seems to be for Merlin when he’s happy.

An arrow blurs past Merlin’s eyes and before he can so much as blink, Gwen is screaming in pain.

“We’re under attack!” Arthur yells, and the sound of swords slicing the air fill Merlin’s ears. His blood pumps hard in his ears, his pulse racing so fast it’s hard for him to even focus.

Merlin hasn’t been in a fight since the last Great War he fought in.

He hasn’t been attacked in decades. When one is grass, one does not have to fear blades—

Or, yes, he knows about lawn mowers, so that’s not true, but he was a very remote piece of grass, and there were no blades, no arrows, no—

No death, no blood, no grief, Lancelot walking into light, Arthur heavy in his arms, a woman in a boat, a friend leaping in front of a sword, a man and a woman and a child all on a pyre, death, death, death, death of people he didn’t know, death of people he loved whose names he can’t remember, it’s here, it’s for him, it’s for Arthur--

His blood is inside of him, heavy, heavy, heavy—

“Get Gwen and Merlin to safety!” Arthur orders, and Merlin snaps back into himself.

It has been a long time since Merlin has been in battle.

It has been far, far longer since Merlin has lost.

In the time it takes to inhale, Merlin surveilles the situation.

Gwen is bleeding—a superficial wound, cutting just the corner of her blouse on her upper arm, a graze. She will be fine. Merlin will make sure of it. No one else is bleeding—all the knights, Arthur included, have weapons drawn, and are on horseback. There are two archers. In the woods, just a few yards away, there are three—no, four, Merlin is sure it is four—foot soldiers.

Bandits, he thinks. Uncoordinated. Planned, but not prepared for the battle they’ve waged.

They have no idea that they have come across the Knights of Camelot on an outing.

Worse, they have no idea they’ve come across him.

Lancelot and Gwen are staring at him with wide eyes, while Arthur and Gwaine scope the surroundings.

“We just want your money and jewelry,” a voice rings from the forest.

Easy enough. Merlin steadies his breath and decides to push down the panic. Arthur is his king. Arthur can handle regular bandits.

Merlin grins, waiting for Arthur’s cocky response.

But then Arthur glances at him, at Gwen, and he hesitates.

Rage deep as the ocean rises inside of him, a tide coating over his every limb and every twinge of his magic.

Here is the Once and Future King Arthur, ready to lay down in defeat for him.

As fucking if.

Merlin leans back in his saddle, and glances around. Then, with a small smile, he shrugs. “Nah,” he calls out casually.

Gwaine and Lancelot’s heads snap towards him, eyes huge.

“Merls,” Gwaine whispers harshly.

“Come out here and face us yourself, cowards!” Merlin yells.

“Merlin. Shut. Up.” Arthur says through gritted teeth. His eyes scan the tree, sword raised in defense.

Merlin looks at Gwen. Her eyes are pink, full of tears, and she’s holding her arm in pain. Still, her expression is set and grim, determined.

He winks at her.

She inhales sharply.

He can tell, as his eye opens, that she can see the gold in his iris.

The archers fall from where they are stationed. Merlin’s careful to send them to soft grass, not unlike he was once, instead of the harsh rocks that would kill them. Though their snores don’t carry, Merlin’s magic is sure they are sleeping.

“What, Arthur, afraid of a few commoners?” Merlin teases, watching his Prince’s face twist up in disbelief. “Or are you just feeling too lazy to defend your friends? Your coin? Your people?”

Merlin hops off his horse and, without breaking his stride, takes the spare sword off Lancelot’s saddle.

“You’re crazy!” Arthur yells, practically killing himself jumping off his own horse. He races to catch up with Merlin. Behind them, Merlin hears Gwaine curse and Lancelot lift Gwen and ask her to stay behind him.

“The archers fell,” Merlin whispers to Arthur as he glances around them. The bandits are clearly frazzled by Merlin’s taunting.

“You can’t know that,” Arthur hisses back.

“Yes, I can,” he argues. “I have remarkable hearing.”

“Remarkable—Merlin, I am going to—”

“I heard it!”

“With your giant ears!”

“Oi!”

“I am going to kill you!”

“Well, kill the bandits first!”

“Sire?” Gwaine asks. He’s got his sword in hand, ready like he’ll spring. He stands at their back, watching the trees behind them.

“Thanks for watching our back,” Merlin offers him sincerely.

Gwaine gives him an incredulous look.

“Ready yourself, Sir Gwaine. Merlin, apparently, has decided on his quest that we must fight the bandits to the death,” Arthur replies sarcastically, clearly fuming.

Merlin glares at him. “I don’t want to give them our stuff!” He snaps. “And also they hurt Gwen!”

Arthur’s eyes immediately dart to Gwen, who is behind guarded by Lancelot.

Merlin would never let anyone get within a yard of them. Considering they’re chatting casually and Gwen gives him a thumbs up, they know that, too.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Merlin calls, turning around. His magic is already wrapped around the bandits. Without needing to spell anything—which means without having to let his eyes turn gold—he can feel their apprehension, their fear.

They’re human, all of them, and their intent truly is just some casual highway robbery. Merlin won’t kill them as long as they don’t try to kill his friends.

Still, he lets his magic give a little supernatural nudge, and he feels, rather than hear, the leader decide they should all just fucking get out of this.

He grins triumphantly when the sound of heavy footsteps and breaking branches fill the air. Their running away is audible even to Arthur and Gwaine.

“Are they… Fleeing?” Gwaine seems truly baffled.

Arthur blinks rapidly. “I just—” Arthur sheathes his sword and then throws his hands up in exasperation.

“What? Are you sad you didn’t get to show off?” Merlin jokes.

Arthur rounds on him with a scowl. “I can’t believe you, you idiot!”

“What?” Merlin gasps. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You annoyed the bandits to running away!” He shouts.

Merlin shrugs. “I don’t see how that’s a bad thing. Gwennie, how is your arm?” Merlin turns on his heel, jogging over to where Gwen and Lancelot wait. “Hey, this seems like a nice spot for lunch, don’t you think?”

Behind him, he can feel Gwaine and Arthur’s baffled exasperation.

But Lancelot is grinning, and Gwen reaches out and touches his face softly and indulgently, and everyone is safe.

Merlin leans his face up, feeling the sunlight. Around him, the soft grass reminds him of himself.

Merlin is having a very, very good day.

Chapter Text

From the scowls bouncing between their merry group, Merlin thinks maybe his stunt with the bandits was a bad idea.

Gwen and Lancelot are mostly scowling at each other, a silent conversation passing as they clip-clop down the path. Arthur is scowling at him. Gwaine is scowling at no one in particular.

Merlin is in a pretty good mood, though.

The sun is warm in the sky, even as it starts to dip lower, evening approaching slowly. They are one day into their journey which means they’ve travelled pretty much as far as they are allowed to travel and still get Arthur back to the counsel.

Merlin closes his eyes, ignoring the scowls and the pointed silence, and he reaches out with his magic.

Eagerly, his magic bounds forward, like a child skipping or a dog running free in the fields. It winds and stretches and tests the limits.

“There’s a clearing up ahead,” Merlin says, his magic swirling and swirling like a giant arrow. “Let’s set up camp there.”

Arthur looks around, his top lip raised and brows furrowed in confusion. “How could you possibly know that, Merlin?”

“I’ve been here before!” Merlin insists.

Arthur gives him a look.

Gwen coughs.

Merlin sighs. “I camped here when I first journeyed to Camelot.”

Merlin remembers that trip. It wasn’t actually this field, but it’s reasonable enough that it could’ve been. Merlin doesn’t remember the exact camping ground he stayed at. It was, after all, a long time ago—by his standards and Arthur’s.

But he remembers the trip itself, as well as one could.

He remembers the feeling of… Freedom. Fear, but that good kind—the kind of fear that is like joy. He was leaving Ealdor, going on an adventure to learn his magic. Once he got to Camelot, the death there—the fear of it, the smell of it—is too permeating for him to remember actually getting to Camelot right now. But Merlin remembers camping the night before he went to Camelot. He dreamt of finding home.

He looks up, and Arthur catches his eye. He nods, a small thing, permission to camp most likely, but Merlin feels it like confirmation to his thoughts.

He found it.

He lost it, too.

Merlin looks at Lancelot. His friend looks back, a friendly but confused smile on his face, and Merlin wishes to hug him.

“Merlin?” He asks kindly.

Merlin shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he assures.

Gwen glances at him curiously, but he just smiles and averts his eyes. He thinks if he talks right now, he’ll cry.

One thing Merlin is learning about having no memories—or, at least, few memories—is the emotional turmoil it creates. The more Merlin remembers—the more he feels—the more he bounces between emotions.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” Gwen cries.

Merlin’s head snaps up. Before them, just down over the hill, is the clearing Merlin’s magic found for him.

Unfortunately, it seems like his magic has decorated, too.

The field is full of flowers. Some of them, he fears, aren’t even native to Camelot. Color explodes everywhere—yellow daffodils, pink middlemists, blue hyacinths, red roses. Flowers grown from ‘s Camelot dirt and Merlin’s magic.

He glances anxiously at his friends. Gwaine and Lancelot look surprised. Gwen is adoring. Arthur is…

Amused?

“Of course you’d remember this field,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “You’re such a girl, Merlin.”

“A lovely thing to be, if I do say so myself,” Merlin replies immediately. Gwen laughs, but thankfully no one looks at him. He needs to be more closed lipped about his experimentation throughout the ages. It would make certain nobles’ heads spin, if too much detail got out.

“This will make a perfect camp,” Gwen says fondly. She glides off her horse like a goddess. Merlin, despite centuries more experience, gets his boot caught in the stirrup and needs to be rescued by Arthur before he’s trampled to death.

The making of camp comes easily to Merlin, especially because of the company. He’s not considered this as practice but it’s a good thing his first time making camp for the knights is such a small group of friends. Gwaine and Lancelot pitch in and, with a sigh towards Gwen, Arthur goes to get firewood while Gwen gets started on the fire.

Merlin messes up a few times, but there’s always a helping hand and, from Gwaine, a wink. Merlin smiles his thanks and lets his magic ease the man’s sore knees as repayment.

Gwaine rubs his leg in surprise, glancing down, and Merlin looks quickly away.

Be cool, Merlin, he thinks harshly to himself.

“It’s awfully chilly today,” Merlin says pointedly.

Gwaine looks up so fast, his hair billows a bit. “Suppose I could help Princess get more wood.”

“That would be great, Gwaine,” Merlin immediately praises. He tacks on a wide smile. Bit much, he thinks.

But Gwaine grins. “Keep ‘em safe, won’t you, Lance?”

Lancelot nods, and Gwen and Merlin meet eyes just to roll them.

As Gwaine heads to the treeline, Merlin sits beside the fire Gwen is stoking. He glances around, making sure no one is looking, and then grabs Gwen’s wrist. She furrows a brow, and Merlin tugs her closer to him. She goes willingly, and her eyes widen in surprise as the flames leap.

“Faster my way,” he teases.

“Just as warm,” she marvels. She lifts a hand, watching her fingers dance beside the fire. Merlin watches the flames flicker in her eyes, her smile soft and secure.

He feels soft and secure, too.

“Merlin, what are we going to do about…” Gwen hesitates, then wiggles her fingers. “It’s very kind you wanted to bring along your friends—”

“Our friends,” Merlin corrects.

“Our friends,” she allows. “But… Well, we can’t very well get your memories back now, can we?”

Merlin frowns. He glances behind him again. Lancelot is grooming one of the horses, his head tilted towards Merlin and Gwen even with his eyes focused on the horse.

“I know I can’t tell Arthur the truth,” Merlin says with a sigh.

“Or Gwaine,” Lancelot hurriedly adds.

“Gwaine adores you, Merlin,” Gwen says. “But he’s…”

Lancelot gives up his pretense, and he comes to sit on the other side of the fire. “The knights are not entirely without bias, Merlin. Without fear. They’ve lived in Camelot for a long time. And… They’ve defended her, too.”

Merlin hears what he’s not saying.

He swallows around a lump. He nods, once, tight and low.

Gwen flips her hand so that he is no longer holding her wrist. Instead, their fingers are intertwined.

“I don’t want to worry you, Merlin. But… Perhaps without your memories you are… Vulnerable.”

“Gaius believes so,” Merlin agrees.

Gwen squeezes his hand. “And as your friend, I will help you. But I fear this trip won’t be the time.”

Merlin looks at the trees. They seem impossibly green. Impossibly real.

It is real.

Merlin is real.

Gwen and Lancelot and the fire made of his magic is real.

And, though he is loathe to admit it, the risk is real, too.

“It will just take time, Merlin,” Lancelot says, voice so terribly earnest. “All we ask is that you have your memories before you share the news with all of Camelot.”

“I hate lying.” Merlin lets go of Gwen. He pushes his own hands together, fingernails digging into flesh. “I’ve spent so long lying. So long not even… After a while, you stop wanting to tell people. And it’s not the fear, it’s not the fear. It’s… After a while, you feel…”

Merlin trails off.

Behind him, a branch cracks. Merlin’s head snaps automatically, and he spies Arthur and Gwaine coming back, arms full of sticks and smiles on their faces.

“Surely this is enough to keep our delicate leader warm,” Arthur says with an eye roll. He drops the wood on the ground and squeezes Gwen’s shoulder lightly before moving to take a seat beside Merlin.

Gwaine fills in the small circle, rubbing his hands together. “Cold, innit?”

“A bit,” Lancelot agrees.

“I think,” Arthur says with a smirk. “You’ve gone soft.”

Gwaine’s eyes widen. “Me?”

“You,” Arthur confirms. His eyes sparkle. “The nice warm castle—”

“If I’m soft, what are you?” Gwaine exclaims.

“Spoilt,” Merlin teases.

Arthur turns in offense, but Gwen and Lancelot’s laughter softens Arthur before he even can fully look at Merlin. By the time he does, he’s smiling too softly for Merlin to care about retribution.

But then Arthur doesn’t say anything, just smirks, and grabs a stick to push into the fire. He’s watching it, with something akin to interest, but not quite.

“So, Merlin,” Gwaine says, turning to him with an easy grin.

It’s the same grin he wore that first day Merlin woke up here. Fake, Merlin thinks. Hiding something.

But it doesn’t raise his hackles like it used to. Instead, he lets himself appreciate that whatever Gwaine is hiding is not malicious. He’s fairly sure about that, even if he doesn’t know what it is the man is holding onto.

“So, Gwaine.” Merlin counters. Gwaine’s smile widens and becomes a bit more earnest.

“You mentioned druids,” he says, pitching his voice lower. “Does that… Is that something we need to be on the lookout for?”

“Lookout?” Merlin’s brows raise.

“I—” Gwaine’s brows pull. His eyes dart to Lancelot before going back to Merlin. “I mean, should we… Be on guard? Do we expect them to arrive?”

“Ah.” Merlin inhales. Disappointment curdles inside of his stomach. “I’m not sure if they will come. I hope so.”

“Why?”

Merlin looks down. He tugs at the grass beneath his fingertips. His magic pushes into it automatically, recognizing it as kin in a way.

“I’ve got questions,” he finally says. “That I think only they can answer.”

There is silence. Merlin can’t bring himself to lift his gaze, to meet his friends’ eyes, to see what they think of this. Of him.

He doesn’t want to see or know.

“Merlin.” Arthur’s hand appears. It’s on Merlin’s wrist. He stares at it, the line of Arthur’s fingers, the cut of his trim nails, clean of dirt despite the day outside. His fingers are heavier than they should be—they brand into him, an indent into his skin that he will be shocked when he doesn’t see it later.

He can’t help himself, not really. His eyes flicker up, and, like usual, get caught on Arthur’s.

Arthur’s expression is soft. His eyes search Merlin’s, bluer than the sky now. For a moment, Merlin is heartbroken at the disappointment on his face. How has Merlin failed his king now?

But then Arthur’s fingers tighten, his brows pulling together and his posture falling as he leans in closer. “Merlin,” he murmurs. “What questions could you have that the ruling prince of Camelot cannot answer?”

Merlin says nothing.

Arthur swallows, the sound audible. Then he adds, soft, “That you cannot even ask?”

Behind him, the sky is darkening. Evening sets in, and with it, the soft sounds of the forest. The flicker of the fire, warm and crackling. Nature is all around him—as are his friends. As is the grass.

Merlin is alive.

Merlin has almost forgotten what it feels like.

“My memories,” he whispers.

“Merlin,” Lancelot and Gwen say at the same time, voices different but the concern shining through regardless.

Merlin lifts a palm towards them, fingers flicking upwards to indicate his desire. Although he can only imagine the looks on their faces, they quiet.

“I have been reluctant to bring up… Magic,” he says, licking his lips. “To the ruler of Camelot, as you can imagine.”

Arthur’s grip on him becomes almost painful. His breathing is heavy. “Say more,” he demands tightly.

“After my… Fainting spell, I woke up without my memories.”

“Your memories?” Arthur demands, serious as only a king can be.

Merlin nods. “It was as if we’d never met. Or, perhaps we’d met, but I had been drunk the whole time. Bits and pieces. I could not remember Gaius, nor my mother. Only a few things remain, like your name and the baker.”

“The baker?”

“The baker.” He confirms. “I’ve… I thought they would come back if I just kept things as normal as possible. But it’s been weeks. Magic is the only cause and solution I can imagine. So I want to ask the druids.”

Arthur lets go of him. Merlin is both relieved and bereft.

“And you thought I would… What? Arrest you for being spelled?” Arthur leans back, blinking rapidly.

Merlin can almost taste the hurt in the air. “I didn’t want to put you in that position,” Merlin whispers. His heart aches.

Arthur’s brows raise. “That’s what worried you?”

Merlin inclines his head. Arthur’s eyes search his face, almost as if looking for guilt. Merlin is a lot of things—and guilty is one of them—but he is certain and righteous in this moment. He would do anything to prevent Arthur pain.

Then Arthur looks away, towards their companions, and Merlin remembers they are not alone.

“Merlin…” Gwaine’s voice trails off.

Merlin reluctantly looks away from Arthur.

“Is that… What has been… Why you have…”

Merlin’s guilt flares. As much as he wants to focus entirely on Arhtur right now, there is a world of people who care for him—it is so unfamiliar to him, it scratches against him uncomfortably.

“I didn’t remember you,” Merlin tells him, watching the relief flood on his face. “I didn’t remember anyone.”

“You remembered Lancelot,” Arthur says, eyes darting between the two.

“Only a bit,” Merlin says. “Just…”

Arthur’s face falls as understanding dawns. “That you trusted him.”

Merlin looks down, nodding.

Gwaine and Arthur say nothing.

“I only found out yesterday,” Gwen offers suddenly. All eyes dart to her. She blushes, but keeps talking. “I am sorry we did not tell you, sire.”

“You, too, feared my reaction?” Arthur asks, and this time, the hurt is more palpable. He’s not even trying to hide it. His relationship with Gwen has always been something Arthur has been eager to claim, even when it was dangerous, even when it was unwanted from himself. Unlike how Merlin and Arthur dart around each other in friendship, Arthur and Gwen are free to show it. Merlin can at once appreciate and resent it dearly.

The fire separates them. Gwen’s eyes are wide and wet, but she nods once, her chin dipping. “I know how your counsel second guesses you,” she says, voice so soft, Merlin has to lean in to hear. “I know how you want to make your father proud, to make Camelot look strong. I trusted you to follow your heart, Arthur, you know I always do. But I… I did not…”

“Want to put me through that,” Arthur finishes, his jaw locking. “No one trusted me, their Prince, to make the right call.”

“Of course we did, sire,” Lancelot says fiercely. But he offers no other explanation, no words of comfort. No one does.

Arthur’s expression shutters. He nods.

“I… I think I will get more firewood,” he says. He stands, walking briskly away.

He watches his king’s back, the shirt he chose for this adventure his most worn and casual. An attempt, small and subtle as it was, to give Merlin the reigns for once. To let Merlin lead this adventure, if only in heart.

Arthur, for the millionth time, for the first, feels betrayed.

Merlin can’t take it. “I’ll be right back,” he says to the group. He chases after Arthur. Though Arthur does not slow down, Merlin catches up quickly.

His eyes practically slice the air when they shoot to Merlin.

“I can handle firewood,” Arthur says, then, adds petulantly, “If not the truth.” He keeps storming through the woods, and Merlin has to nearly jog to keep pace.

Breathlessly, Merlin tries giving Arthur a grin. “Are you sure, sire? You might wither away if someone is not there to witness your pouting.”

“My pouting?” Arthur scoffs. “How would you even know if I pout or not? Aren’t you supposed to supposed to be wiped clean?”

Now it is Merlin’s turn to scoff. “As if my lack of memory is enough to make me forget your epic tantrums.”

“My tantr—Merlin.”

“Arthur.”

“This isn’t a joke!” He exclaims, stopping suddenly. He spins to Merlin, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You lied to me.”

“I did not lie, I just didn’t tell the truth.”

Arthur’s eyes harden, even as the sorrow on his face shines. “Is that what we’ve come to? Technicalities on betrayal?”

Merlin deflates. “I would never betray you, Arthur,” he swears. “I wanted to protect you.”

“I am Prince, Merlin.” Arthur’s hand slams against his own chest, right over his heart. “It is my duty to protect you.”

Merlin inhales. “Me?”

“Camelot.” Arthur corrects, his chin dipping in the smallest of nods. “All of Camelot. I can handle the truth from my servant.”

Merlin sways forward. He reaches for his friend, and, without thinking, covers Arthur’s hand with his own.

“Take heart, Arthur,” he says earnestly. “Your friends love you too much to cause you pain.”

“Or to trust me.” Arthur insists.

Merlin scans his scant memories of Arthur. His head thrown back laughing, his arms crossed like a toddler, his voice strong and full of promise as he addresses his people—his bravery in battle, his humor in the quiet moments, his joy in the best.

Merlin looks at Arthur, and there are so few memories shared between them, both because of Merlin’s magic and because of Arthur’s life experience. Denied, both of them, the true connection that should be fizzing between them.

But Merlin loves him all the same.

How could he ever not?

“Come with me to get my memories,” he implores, eyes wide and certain. “And then I will never lie to you again.”

Arthur’s eyes bore into his. He is passing judgement, Merlin realizes, decreeing what will be. His look is one of a king, a brother, a friend, a lover—it is everything they are and are not, all at once, and Merlin knows that what Arthur responds with will break him.

He opens his mouth.

Before he can say a word, a scream in the distance breaks through the trees. Their eyes, still caught on each other, widen.

“Gwen,” Arthur breathes, and then they both are sprinting through the woods as fast as they can, a sword and a hand raised at once, both their weapons drawn.

Chapter Text

Merlin holds two hands up in tight fists. He’s laughing so hard it’s coming out in little squeaks and he has to keep bending at the waist.

“Mer—Mer—Merlin!” Gwen gasps out as she laughs, her giggles dissolving into a remarkably unladylike snort.

“Choose!” He crows, clearing his throat and holding his fists up again. Gwen pops an eyebrow and Merlin dissolves into a fit again. They end up collapsing against each other, their noises so loud the other servants in the hall turn to stare—some bemused, some glaring.

Merlin tries, he really tries, to have a straight expression. He fails almost immediately.

“Guinevere, please, pay attention—” Merlin fake scolds.

Gwen snorts again but dutifully straightens, tossing her hair.

“Choose. Which. Hand—” He giggles again. “Which hand has the coin.”

Gwen clears her throat, eyes narrowing in concentration. She reaches out and taps his left.

Merlin opens it. She screams in delight, snatching the coin, and Merlin falls back against the stone wall to laugh.

“Great job,” he compliments, smirking.

Gwen preens, smiling. “I am getting better.”

“You can’t get better at a guessing game,” Merlin points out.

Gwen shrugs. “Yet I am, so that must not be true.”

“I think you’re cheating,” Merlin says. Gwen’s affronted sound makes him grin.

“I am not cheating.” She says with a pointed chin and a proud look. “And I am not in charge of the visiting noble’s laundry either, it appears.”

Merlin fakes a groan. “Fine,” he pretends to pout. “I will do the laundry.”

Gwen’s relief is palpable. No one likes to do extra chores, but Merlin knows it’s more than that. The visiting noble is a favorite of Uther’s, a very rich man who has spent far more time at court than Merlin (and the rest of the servants) would prefer. Merlin knows that Gwen isn’t cheating at the guessing game—he’s the cheater.

“Are you attending Arthur at tomorrow’s feast?” Gwen asks, reaching down to grab a basket of Morgana’s laundry.

Merlin quickly scoops it from her. “I can carry this,” he says belatedly, already walking towards the stairs. Gwen thanks him. “He hasn’t said anything yet, but the prat certainly isn’t going to pour his own wine.”

“Merlin!” Gwen giggles. “You cannot speak of him that way.”

“Or what?” Merlin turns and waggles his brows. “He’ll be forced to acknowledge how pratty it is that if you have enough coin you don’t pour your own drinks?”

Gwen giggles again. “Perhaps the coin I won could pay for a pour or two for me.”

“Oh, Gwen,” Merlin says with a beaming grin. “For you, I’d pour for free.”

Gwen’s screams radiate through the forest the way a fire would.

The memory, sharp as what’s happening to him right now, plays on a loop as Merlin races through the forest. He can hear Arthur beside him, the crashing of his feet and the push of his body. His magic wraps around Arthur safely, keeping him inside of a protective bubble. Merlin is grateful for the ways his magic has grown over the years, grateful that he can know Arthur is safe while putting all his attention and efforts on reaching Gwen.

Gwen, his closest friend.

Gwen, who is meant to be his queen in just a few short years.

Gwen, whose screams permeate the woods like smoke in a hearth.

Merlin slices through the air, faster than his legs have ever carried him. When he skids to a stop in the clearing, his feet are pushing against the ground, flattening the flowers his magic grew for his friends.

Arthur meets him only a millisecond later. It’s not long enough for Merlin to process what he’s looking at, let alone school his expression.

Gwen stands with her hands held up in fists, a furious scowl marking her face. There’s a cut on her forehead—blood slips out of the wound. Creating a triangle, Lancelot and Gwaine stand at her side and back, swords drawn.

Surrounding them are at least a dozen druids.

Confusion, he realizes, is the strongest emotion he’s got. The druids make a menacing yet welcome sight. He can feel them pushing into his head, over and over, from different directions. He blocks them out automatically, the way one would swat a fly.

Merlin centers his gaze on Gwen.

“You’re hurt,” he says, stuttering forward.

Gwen winces.

Merlin chances a glance at Arthur.

His King looks every bit the warrior. His eyes are narrow, trained on the druids as he searches for the leader.

“Guinivere,” he says lightly. “Are you okay?”

Gwen’s eyes dart to Arthur. She looks panicked. Then her eyes cut to Merlin. He nods at her, and she relaxes slightly.

“I’m okay, Arthur.” She says. Her voice trembles. “I tripped—I fell.”

Relief floods Merlin. If the druids had hurt Gwen, the fight to rid Arthur of his prejudices would be over before it began.

There’s a break in moment here, where anything could happen. As Arthur’s eyes roam Gwen, he’s making decisions.

Merlin can’t risk what that will be right now, on the heels of their conversation.

Merlin takes a step forward towards the druids.

“Merlin,” Arthur hisses.

Merlin ignores him. “Hello,” he says softly. “Have you come for me?”

“Merlin.” Arthur says again, voice firmer.

Merlin steps through the circle of druids to stand by his friends. Reluctantly, Arthur follows.

“Great,” he mutters furiously. “Now we’re surrounded.”

“They’re not here to fight.” Merlin says with an eye roll.

“Sure about that, mate?” Gwaine asks tightly. He nods his head towards the druids on the left, and, yeah, okay, a few of them have daggers and one has a fire ball hovering above his hands. They’re all wearing robes that cover their faces, and one of them even has a broadsword—Merlin supposes that the fear is justified, even if it does hurt Merlin’s feelings.

Arthur looks at him. He doesn’t turn, barely even shifts his gaze from the druids to Merlin, but he’s looking at Merlin all the same.

Merlin turns fully, and, the best he can, he holds his gaze.

Merlin knows he’s asking a lot. Over and over again, he’s asked his king for more. Merlin was sent back, he was sent back. So he has to ask.

Arthur’s jaw leaps. His lips turn together. His eyes burn like Merlin is looking at the sun.

Arthur softens, inch by inch, like someone cracking a spine one nob at a time.

“Weapons down, men,” Arthur says, not looking away from Merlin. Then, with a gentle quirk to his lips, “Fists, too, Gwen.”

The trio relaxes. Merlin turns to the druids, knowing his face is painfully hopeful. The fire extinguishes—the blades disappear.

“We apologize for the fright, my lady,” one druid says, stepping only a small step forward.

Gwen’s eyes dart to Merlin. She rolls her lips together, then, as carefully as she can, says, “That’s quite alright.”

Merlin smiles at her. Tentatively, she smiles back.

“Are you here to help my manservant with his missing memories?” Arthur asks. Automatically, he’s taking a stance—holding court. Arthur can’t help himself. He’s a king, and he can’t be anything else.

Merlin’s lips twitch. He holds in his mirth only because he doesn’t know how to explain it.

The druids look to Merlin. Hesitantly, one nods. “Yes,” he says, eyes darting to Merlin.

Merlin remembers belatedly that he has shut the telepathic door between himself and the druids. He creaks it open, wincing at the loudness of their voices.

Emrys—

Merlin swallows hard. He had forgotten about this—of course he had—and now the pressure of their presences in his skull sink into him like a migraine.

It’s Emrys!

Emrys, he’s different—

What has happened, Emrys?

Emrys, your soul—

His soul—

“I woke without my memories,” Merlin says, his voice low with the effort to not shield his eyes from the sun.

“Your memories?” A druid exclaims. “How could someone spell you to forget?”

Fear, fear he wishes was not his, grips him.

Arthur glances towards Merlin. “I rather think the question is why.”

“Perhaps they thought the kingdom would fall if I had to miss a day of work,” Merlin jokes. “You certainly acted like it would when I asked for a day off.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. Under his breath, he mutters, “You asked for three.”

I’m sorry, Emrys, the druid apologizes.

Merlin shakes his head ever so slightly.

In his mind, he adds, It was not simply a fall. I woke from a different time.

Murmurs go through the crowd—both aloud and in his mind.

That was the energy, Iselider.

It must have been then that we felt it—

That was the day that we prayed—

Emrys, where were you before you woke?

Merlin hesitates. Part of him wants to hide the secret—that part of him, though, he no longer wishes to indulge. As earnestly as he can, he tells the truth.

Or, at least, he thinks it.

From about two thousand years from now, after the fall of Camelot.

There’s a rippling effect when Merlin shares this.

Two of the druids fall to their knees in shock. Others gasp.

Warily, Gwen and Lancelot turn to Merlin. Arthur and Gwaine are watching the druids with trepidation.

“That can’t be true,” a man with a long white beard says, his eyes wet with horror.

Arthur’s concern is instant. “Is it permanent, then? His memories?”

“What?” The man looks to Arthur, blinking rapidly. “Oh. I—I—I have never heard of such a thing.”

Emrys, this cannot be true.

Of course it is true, Iselider, look at his soul.

His soul, his soul—

Merlin blocks them out again. Clearing his throat, he licks his lips.

“Memory spells cannot be so uncommon,” Gwaine says, his voice shaking ever so slightly.

The druids—the man, Iselider, and the other eleven—all look at him with tremendous awe and pity.

Merlin’s heart warms for the bravery of his friends and the sorrows of his people, even as part of him wishes to run and hide.

“No,” a woman says quietly, her voice pained. She is grandmotherly in stature and sound, and the way she looks at Merlin reminds him of a woman whose face his cannot place. “No, memory spells can be… Common. But we can see the threads of this one. This is… Difficult to explain.”

“Try,” Arthur commands. Then, eyes darting to Merlin and back, he adds, “Please.”

Iselider looks to Merlin.

Merlin reluctantly opens the channel again, just for the two of them.

Say what you can, please, he allows.

Merlin’s had centuries upon centuries to come to terms with his role in the druids’ prophecies. He’s certain that knowing them caused more harm than good. He’s also certain that he’s forgotten more about prophecies than Iselider will ever know. It is not that Iselider is unwise—it is that Merlin has accumulated far beyond anyone’s wildest dreams.

I am so sorry, young warlock, Iselider thinks in a soft whisper.

Merlin inclines his head.

Iselider, with tears in his eyes, turns to Arthur. “There are such spells that, once cast, can leave someone without their memories, sire. But none quite like the magic that plagues your manservant.”

Arthur’s eyes darken. Somehow, he stands a little bit taller than he did a second ago. “Explain.”

“It is not a spell that did this,” the old woman replies. “A spell is a concentrated force of magic—it is intended with meaning, with human intent.”

“Like someone swinging a blade?” Lancelot asks.

Iselider nods. “Yes, Sir Knight. Like swinging a blade can cut, a spellcaster could steal memories. Unlike a blade, however, the spell could be broken, at worst by the death of the magic user.”

“But this is not like swinging a blade.” Unconsciously, Gwaine’s hand returns to the hilt of his own sword.

A few pairs of eyes dart to it, but no one says anything. Merlin is grateful for the trust of the druids, even if it is mostly because they are in such shock.

“No,” Iselider confirms. “The magic on—Merlin. The magic on Merlin is not like someone swung a blade.”

Arthur steps closer to Merlin. Their arms brush. Merlin is not sure he meant to do it—to sway closer, to let them touch. He wishes he knew more—wishes he knew less—so that he might find comfort in the pressure of Arthur against him.

“Then what is it like?”

“The magic that we can feel from Merlin… The magic responsible for him waking up with no memories… It feels as if it has come from the earth itself. From the sky.”

“From the gods,” Grandmother adds.

Iselider looks to Merlin, and there is grief in his eyes that makes Merlin feel so hollow, he might crack open just to prove that he is not empty.

“It is a fire, and the best we can hope for is that it does not consume him entirely.”

Chapter Text

“Well, that was dire.”

Gwaine is the first to break the group’s silence after finishing setting up camp. The druids left their clearing minutes after revealing that Merlin can’t spell his memories back, but no one had said more than a grunt here or there.

Lancelot scowls at him. Gwen buries her face in her hands.

Arthur—

Well, Arthur has been smacking his sword into a tree for the last seventeen minutes. Merlin is literally counting.

He takes a brief two second pause when Gwaine speaks, but he’s back to aggressively slicing into the wood after just that small breather.

Merlin sighs.

“It could have gone worse,” he offers.

Arthur spins to him. His sword dangles in one hand, and sweat shines on his brow. “Could it have, Merlin? Could it have gone worse?”

“Yes,” he says. Arthur glowers. “Or no. I guess… No?”

“No,” Arthur repeats with a scoff. “No, he says!” Then he hits the tree again.

Merlin winces. Poor fucking tree.

“I thought they were nice?” Gwen offers. It comes out muffled, hidden behind her hands as she is, but Merlin appreciates the gesture.

“They said you were on fire!” Arthur exclaims. He slams his sword into the earth so it sticks straight up, marching over to Merlin. He points a finger at him. “Fire, Merlin.”

Merlin swats Arthur’s finger away. “Dramatic,” he insults. “They did not say I was on fire. They just used a metaphor!”

“A metaphor—I’m going to kill you—”

“Alright, alright,” Lancelot interrupts, standing between Arthur and Merlin with his hands raised. “Let’s cool down.”

Arthur is unperturbed. With great emphasis, he puts a hand to his chest.

“Merlin, you are going to lose every bit of yourself. Don’t you care?”

Merlin looks at the ground. The grass is darker now than it was before—everything is, night having settled in like a blanket on top of them. But the grass, he can tell, is almost brown. It’s wilting.

Burning.

Merlin’s throat feels tight.

“I’ve lost myself before,” he murmurs, his chest hollow.

He has lost, a thousand times over. He looks at Arthur, sees his face red from warmth, from blood circulating beneath the pale, shiny skin. He focuses on that—on the pores on Arthur’s face, on the way he has blackheads on his nose, on the way one single blond hair sticks from his chin, missed in a hasty shave. Arthur is live in technicolor, Merlin thinks.  

“You are alive,” Merlin says, his voice steadier than before.

Arthur’s brows leap, his lips parting in uncertainty. “Why is that even in question?”

“Arthur,” Merlin scolds. “It’s always in question. It’s always the question.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything to that. His brows pull together, his lips pressing tightly, and he seems so sorrowful that Merlin takes pity.

He stands up, and crosses to Arthur. With the confidence of a good friend and not a servant, Merlin places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

It speaks to how broken up Arthur truly is about this news that he barely reacts.

“Hell of a day, am I right?” Merlin offers, trying to break the ice.

Arthur just glowers.

“Arthur,” Merlin says gently. “Already my memories return.”

“That’s true!” Gwen says, suddenly breaking away from her hands. “Only days ago, he didn’t know my name.”

“I hoped the druids could help me,” Merlin continues. “I hoped that by the time I woke tomorrow, I would remember every day I have known you. But I am here. You are here. I won’t be burdened by a day that ends with us alive together.”

The minute the words leave his mouth, the forest is frozen.

Merlin can tell instantly that he went too far—that the intimacy he has allowed to grow inside of his mind is not shared with Arthur, at least not out loud.

Arthur’s face is at once heartbroken and uncomfortable, a tight pull of muscle that he couldn’t have meant to show. His eyes fall to the ground while his lips twist into a frown.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and he ends it there. Merlin doesn’t blame him. Truly, what else is there to say?

He lets go of Arthur, his throat tight. He runs his hand—the hand that burns from touching Arthur, even through clothes—and runs it through his hair.

“Firewood,” he manages an excuse just before he’s turned on his heel and fled into the woods.

They have plenty of wood at camp. And, even if they didn’t, Merlin’s magic would never let the fire die out. But the cover of darkness grows the farther from the campfire he gets, and right now, Merlin needs it.

Disappointment is like a pit in his stomach. He leans against a tree, feeling the cool bark, and tries to settle his rolling nausea.

Merlin knows that magic is complicated. That a spell to fix a psyche broken by time, not magic or injury, was unlikely. He had just—

He had hoped.

Before Merlin came back to Camelot, he had stopped hoping.

Perhaps he had stopped hoping before he ever left in the first place.

All he knows is that today’s blow—coupled by Arthur’s revulsion at his earnest loyalty—has created a sensation of despair inside of his gut that he can’t ever remember feeling before.

There is no comfort in reminding himself that he doesn’t remember much at all about anything.

Without tenderness, Merlin hits the back of his head against the tree. For a moment, he hopes he passes out. A brief reprise from the swirling emotions—anger, sadness, embarrassment, and, worst of all, damned hope, still swirling there that one day, one day, Arthur will want him back, will want him alive above all else the way Merlin wants him—

He doesn’t need a lot from the man. He doesn’t need love the way others might think he does. He isn’t a fool enough, nor is he young enough, to hope for love the way Arthur himself does. All he needs is for Arthur to see him, and to not look away.

“Merlin?” A voice gently breaks into Merlin’s self-hating spiral. He looks up, wincing a bit at the pain he is now registering.

Gwaine stands a yard away, a tentative, concerned expression on his face. He holds his hands together, clasped in front of him, as if trying to appear smaller.

Merlin hates himself for how much he wishes it was a different man trying to give Merlin what he needs.

“Hi,” he says with a sigh.

Gwaine moves slowly, like he is approaching a wild animal. Merlin thinks he is more wild than not these days, so it is likely warranted.

He looks out towards the trees, not wanting to see the pity on Gwaine’s face.

“Not having much luck with the firewood?”

Merlin lets out a sound partway between a scoff and a laugh. “Just taking my time.”

“Aye, a good choice.”

Gwaine settles beside Merlin. He folds his arms across his chest, and they are close enough that Merlin can feel every time Gwaine inhales and exhales.

“I would help you recover,” Gwaine says softly. “If I knew how.”

Merlin offers a small smile. “I would take you up on it if I knew how, too.”

Gwaine smiles. It cracks at something inside of Merlin’s chest. “How did we meet?”

“The first, or the second?”

Merlin’s brows raise. “There was twice?”

“Well, when you woke up as you are now—that was us meeting, wasn’t it? You didn’t care for me.” Gwaine’s lips twitch down.

Merlin sees no reason to deny it. “I couldn’t read you.”

For some reason, this makes Gwaine’s frown deeper. “I think the first time, you read me instantly.”

Merlin searches Gwaine’s face. He searches his own memories, too.

“Plates. A fight? We were on the same side.”

“Aye,” Gwaine smiles. “Tell me a memory you do have.”

“Of us?”

“Of anything.” Gwaine shrugs.

Merlin bites the inside of his cheek. He looks up at the stars, considering.

It would be safest to share one from Camelot. One of Arthur, if not of Gwen or Gaius. But right now, Merlin’s mind is having trouble sticking to the present. Or the past, as it is. He’s having trouble thinking about much of anything except the twitch of Arthur’s eyebrow when Merlin pulled away, of the sound of the druids’ cries in his mind, of the ache of exhaustion in his bones.

“It’s okay,” Gwaine says. “Forget I asked.”

Merlin swallows hard. He tries to say something, but Gwaine beats him to it.

“The camp is tense,” Gwaine continues talking, and Merlin continues not looking at him. “But you get why we’re worried, don’t you, Merls?”

Without wanting to, Merlin is reminded of war.

He remembers trenches, the sting of blood rising from open wounds, the stench of bodies, alive and dead, all struggling to decompose in their own way. He remembers the fury of his soul, the ineffectiveness of his magic against a tidal wave of weapons no one in Camelot would even think to have nightmares about. He thinks about how much time he wasted, staring aimlessly at the shores of Avalon, how if only the gods were kinder, he would have decomposed there, too.

He remembers the face of the last man he killed. He was so young. Fifty-four years old. Barely a blip in Merlin’s life—the years and the death.

Merlin scrubs his hands down his face, fighting as hard as he can to stay present in this moment. He feels the years tugging at him, like wind growing stronger, a tornado of time and memories and regret, regret, regret, regret, regret, regret—

“Oh, Merlin.” Gwaine surges forward, and before Merlin can blink, he is wrapped in Gwaine’s arms.

For a moment, Merlin can’t do anything but stand there. He feels his breath like it’s a separate entity from himself. It is held in a fist inside of his chest.

Gwaine smells like sweat and horses, which is unpleasant, but he also smells like the smoke from the fire and a familiar tang that scratches at something inside of him.

Merlin uncracks himself bone by bone. It takes remarkable effort, but there is something about Gwaine’s embrace that feels like—

Well, not home, not exactly. Not familiar, as much as he might wish it to be. But safe.

For the first time, Merlin does not think about who he used to be.

Instead, he finds comfort in Gwaine’s arm because of who he is now. Because of who Gwaine has shown himself to be. There is no memory here. There is only the weight and feel of a friend, and Merlin finds himself clinging to Gwaine’s tunic, pressing his now wet cheeks against Gwaine’s stubbly neck. He winds himself as tightly as he can to Gwaine, and Gwaine holds him just as firmly.

“I’m here, Merlin,” Gwaine says, his voice trembling.

Merlin’s nails dig into Gwaine’s back. His body moves without his permission, a heavy inhale and exhale that presses his chest to Gwaine’s.

“I’m here,” Gwaine repeats.

Merlin looks up. His eyes are still full with tears, but he is able to see Gwaine now. Through the trees, there is starlight. Gwaine’s eyes are warm. The deep brown shines, and Merlin realizes belatedly that his eyes, too, are full of tears.

“You always are, aren’t you?” Merlin murmurs.

Gwaine’s answering smile is as sad as it is tender. Merlin finds himself searching—searching for answers, for memories, for comfort. Gwaine lifts one hand and brushes a piece of Merlin’s hair away from his forehead.

“Don’t let Arthur get you down, Merlin,” Gwaine says softly. His hand moves from Merlin’s hair to the back of his neck. He grips him there—not quite hard, but firm enough to sharpen Merlin’s attention. “You are the very best of Camelot. Memories or no.”

Merlin’s chest could cave in any moment. He thinks it might if there wasn’t a sound behind them, drawing their attention. Merlin tears his eyes away at the last second—a hard film had already descended over Gwaine’s face, his expression shuttering like a door closing.

Merlin feels lost.

Merlin feels—

“Gwaine? Merlin?” Gwen’s voice breaks through the turmoil Merlin is sifting through.

Pushing all that down, Merlin turns towards the sound. Gwen waits a few feet away, hand on a tree as if to hold her up. Her eyes flicker between them.

“Decided against the firewood,” Gwaine says breezily.

Merlin feels a stark difference between the Gwaine holding him and the one smiling widely at Gwen. He wonders if Gwaine feels a difference in him, too.

Without another word, the knight sends Merlin a friendly wink before heading back towards the camp. Gwen watches him go before turning to Merlin with a raised brow.

Merlin holds his hands up. “I couldn’t explain if I wanted to.”

“You are having an emotional day,” Gwen says with an understanding smile. Merlin isn’t sure if that’s really in response to what he said or not.

Part of Merlin wants to continue to hide. He’s feeling… Exposed. Vulnerable. He’s embarrassed and he’s proud and he’s—Well, he’s tired, too.

“Remember this morning?” Merlin asks with a groan. He walks to Gwen, looping their arms together. “Was that a year ago?”

“Alas, it was the same day.” Gwen says mournfully. They walk back towards the camp. Merlin can see the fire, the smoke moving up through the trees.

Though it is his destination, his feet are heavy. He drags them, fighting against the instinct of his muscles to remain locked.

Back at camp, there is Arthur, Gwaine, and Lancelot, and at least fifty percent of him would love to turn around and run far, far away. The other part of him knows that his bedroll is also at camp, and he would give up almost anything for a handful of hours of sleep right now.

As if she can tell, Gwen covers his hand with hers. “Everything really will work out, Merlin,” she says confidently.

He raises his brows. “Really?” He replies dryly. “What gives you that idea?”

“Well… What other choice is there besides everything working out well?” She beams at him.

Merlin knows too much, though. He’s seen too much. A funeral pyre holding Gwaine’s red cape. A war fought over money, again and again and again for centuries. Morgana’s wide eyes open, unmoving and dull, with a sword beside her lax hand. A busy street with children begging for coin and no one even slowing down. Gwen on a throne, with no one beside her but her guards. The world cracking, under water, and on fire.

Merlin looks ahead. When he sees the campfire again, he wonders if he’ll be able to feel the warmth.

They are close enough now that he can see Arthur, his golden face crumpled in concentration. Looking for them, maybe. He stares out at the woods, looking just a few feet away in the wrong direction.

“Of course. What other choice is there?”

Chapter Text

When Merlin wakes up, things do look brighter.

It takes him a few moments to realize it’s because his eyes are shining gold.

“Merlin…” Lancelot hedges, eyes flickering around as if he is surrounded. Merlin cocks his head, squinting, but the bright gold is everywhere: he can barely see through the saturation.

All around him, the flowers are growing. The trees are lush with fruit and seed, and there are literal animals inching closer, looking pleased as fairytales. Lancelot’s staring at a particularly smiley bear with remarkable trepidation.

“Merlin, your magic.” Gwen’s hand on his is a harsh, tight grip. “Hurry, before the others return!”

Merlin looks around. He realizes Gwaine and Arthur are not around the dwindling fire, but he can hear their voices, muffled as they are.

“I don’t—I—”

He blinks a few times, squeezing his eyes shut.

Magic is not just a ‘concentrated human effort’ or whatever the hell the druids said. It’s also emotion. It’s also blood. Merlin’s magic is not actively being concentrated. It’s just—

Bleeding out.

As quickly as he can, he stanches the hole. Merlin focuses on the meditations. He’d been doing them nightly with Gaius, but last night was perhaps one of the longest Merlin had experienced in centuries, and so, well, yeah, chanting wasn’t high on his list.

But he does it now, and he can hear Gwen’s approval, so he figures it’s working.

When he opens his eyes again, the forest is once again the right colors. He sees the relief on Lancelot’s face.

Merlin bites the inside of his cheek.

Sheepishly, he smiles. “Did I do that?” He offers in his best Steve Urkel impersonation.

Lancelot and Gwen look at him with mirrored expressions of bafflement. He remembers belatedly that Family Matters won’t exist for over a thousand years, and he feels sad and old and lonely again just as Gwaine and Arthur come in from the tree line.

“So he’s awake!” Arthur exclaims, a grin on his face. “Enjoy your lie-in, Merlin?”

Merlin lifts his brows. So they’re ignoring yesterday. Alright then.

“It was great,” Merlin says. Gwaine looks between Arthur and Merlin, his eyes calculating. Merlin decides, hey, why not ignore that, too.

He gets up, his back cracking from the pressure of sleeping on the hard ground all night. Merlin’s head is feeling a lot clearer after the night’s sleep.

Arthur is passing out waterskins. Merlin and Lancelot both look away as he offers Gwen hers, their fingers brushing.

“Here,” Gwaine says, and Merlin looks up. The knight offers him a hunk of bread. Merlin accepts it gladly, biting into the hard crust. As he chews, he watches the camp break down. Gwaine helps a little, but mostly he seems to be on ‘Merlin duty’. Merlin would be annoyed, but he knows that hovering and mother henning is how his friends show care.

“Merlin…” Lancelot says, looking at him with an apology already on his face. “Are we… heading back to Camelot then?”

Arthur perks up at this. He doesn’t turn to look at Merlin, but he angles himself so he can see and hear Merlin without being obvious. Of course, it is obvious and Merlin can tell instantly, but whatever.

If he’s being honest, Merlin has no idea what’s next.

He’d like to speak to the dragon, but that is something that is definitely a bit ruined by the add-ons in the group. There’s no real way to get the dragon here without calling him and Gaius warned him in no uncertain terms that his dragon lord abilities are something he needs to keep under lock and key. While he doesn’t know if he agrees, he also doesn’t know if he disagrees with that.

Not to mention, Merlin is a bit exhausted.

He’d really thought—truly—that he’d wake up this morning with his memories intact. That they are still evading him is a disappointment that he can’t help but struggle with.

“Arthur’s got to return by nightfall, right?” He glances at his king.

Arthur’s frowning, but he inclines his head. “Morning at the latest.”

Merlin’s heart soars. For all the pain he’s feeling, he hears what Arthur isn’t saying—an inclination that Merlin can choose what happens today.

It’s not an apology, nor is it really more than what Merlin is deserved, but he appreciates it like a grand gesture all the same.

“I fear the quest is a failure,” Merlin admits. He climbs atop his horse, petting her kindly. He can feel that she aches a bit in the legs, so he closes his eyes, presses his hand to her mane, and lets some of his residual magic soothe her.”

“Cheer up, Merlin,” Arthur says, mounting his horse. He moves so fluidly, so effortlessly, that Merlin can’t help but gawk.

It’s the small things that Merlin forgot first. The way Arthur’s thighs looked around the horse, the material of his pants stretched tight, his muscles taut or relaxed. The way his hair sometimes fell over one eye if he slept on it wrong. The way his mind always seemed to be working, even when he was trying to appear casual.

It’s the small things that made Merlin love him first, too, so every reminder is a bittersweet experience.

“There’s a small lake not far from here,” Gwaine says, eyeing each of them carefully. Gwen perks up. “We could swim.”

Merlin grips the reins tighter. He looks between his friends, and then offers a tight smile. “We better not.”

Gwaine drops it instantly, and he offers Merlin a smile of an apology of his own.

Everyone now mounted, Gwaine leads the way out of their small meadow. Merlin glances behind his shoulder—the flowers, now drooping and withering, remind him of his own failure.

He takes up the rear of the group. As much as he is grateful to be here, to be here with his friends, to be alive, he can’t shake the lingering regret. The look in Iselider’s eyes. The fear in Gaius’s. There is more to consider, more to figure out—Merlin can’t for the life of himself figure out what he should be doing.

He lifts his chin towards the sky. The sun beams down, breaking through the crowd of branches, and he tries to lose himself in the warmth. It’s harder than he’d like.

“Merlin.”

Merlin’s posture shoots up. His horse nickers, stomping her feet, and Merlin has to focus on relaxing his muscles so that the steed knows what to do. When he glances towards Arthur, he realizes he’s holding his breath.

The others are a bit farther ahead. On this wide of a path, all three of them are able to ride side by side, Gwen in the center. He can hear their voices, but the way he hears the wind—no words, but the emotions come through. He focuses on that, on their joy, when he turns to look Arthur in his eyes.

Arthur’s expression is one that has thankfully made its way to Merlin’s post-grass life. He recognizes the regret in the lines on Arthur’s face instantly.

“Yesterday…”

Arthur trails off.

A part of Merlin wants to brush it away instantly. To apologize, even, for the emotion he’d let guide his words.

But Merlin bites his tongue and waits. He can tell after a few seconds that Arthur was expecting him to dismiss the conversation instantly. He wonders if that’s what he used to do—if that’s how he and Arthur lived their entire time together without saying anything at all. Merlin isn’t sure if it’s wisdom or insanity that has given him the ability to wait.

Arthur fidgets a bit. His horse shakes his mane, and Arthur sighs.

“Yesterday was a long day.”

Merlin inclines his head. “So it was, sire.”

“I—I fear… Well, magic has never been an easy topic… That is to say—”

Merlin takes pity on him. “I am not upset with you, Arthur.”

Arthur’s eyes dart to Merlin’s. “And why should you have been,” he says, his relief palpable.

Merlin’s fingers itch with the urge to reach up and touch Arthur. As he is learning to do, he stays the instinct.

“It is admirable,” Arthur says, looking straight ahead. His eyes flicker as he searches seemingly nowhere, but his jaw is tight. “How well you are handling this.”

Merlin bites the inside of his cheek. “Is that a compliment, sire?”

Arthur turns to him. A crease forms between his brow. “It is.”

Merlin swallows hard.

Arthur does, too.

“Even when we return to Camelot,” Arthur says. “I will help you get your memories back. You know that, don’t you?”

Merlin searches Arthur’s face, for the earnest sincerity that he holds when he commits himself to something. It is the grim set of his lips, the wideness of his eyes, the spread of his shoulders—a king, pledging himself to his kingdom. Merlin sees it now, drawn out like a battle command for him, and he loves Arthur so dearly, his own eyes well with tears.

He looks away immediately. “Of course.”

“Of course,” Arthur repeats, nodding to himself.

Merlin clears his throat, swiping at his face as discreetly as he can. He catches Gwen’s eye, and she immediately convinces the group to reform, situating herself beside him.

Merlin shoots her a grateful smile. She smiles back.

The ride back to Camelot goes smoothly. Merlin keeps his magic and ears open, waiting for some sort of attack, some sort of bandit or tripping horse or loud mouthed Gwaine. But everything is… Easy.

It makes Merlin instantly suspicious.

He wants to lean into the softness, of Arthur’s quasi-apology, of Gwen’s intuitiveness, Gwaine’s kindness, Lancelot’s support. He wants to simply have a good time. He wants to simply… Live. In this moment.

But staying in the moment isn’t something Merlin is all that great at anymore. He thinks he used to be—he thinks it’s how he survived.

He stopped surviving though.

The magic, oh sure, it kept him alive. The magic has him surviving and surviving and surviving—

But Merlin.

Well, Merlin let himself be buried in grass. Buried of grass.

Buried. Grass.

Merlin blinks. Already, they are back at the gates. The sun is dipping low. The castle gleams in the sunset. Arthur both relaxes and holds himself taller, all at once. Merlin watches as the knights straighten, as Gwen hunches. Merlin isn’t sure what his own spine is doing.

He pushes through the disappointment of his failed adventure. When he’d left Camelot a day ago—and had it truly only been a day?—he thought this was it. This was the end of his confusion, of his fear, of his uncertainty. He’d thought this was the answer.

When Arthur instructs a stable boy to take care of all their horses, Merlin takes it as the kindness he meant it as.

“Lancelot, Gwaine, I will see you at training tomorrow,” Arthur dismisses. He turns to Merlin. “I’ll have another servant attend me after I meet with Agravaine.”

Merlin cocks his head to the side. “Agravaine?”

Arthur’s brows lift. His eyes dart around while he lets out a friendly laugh. “My uncle. Who else did you think I’d leave in charge while I was off on our hunt, Merlin?”

Merlin scans his memory. Arthur gives him an annoyed look, but Merlin realizes a second later it’s nerves from not knowing who is listening.

Merlin catches on quickly enough. “Of course, sire,” he agrees. He doesn’t remember the guy at all, and he’s pretty sure no one mentioned him during his past few weeks. Must not be all that important.

High enough in Arthur’s mind to be a suitable replacement, though. Merlin makes a mental note to check the guy out at the next counsel meeting. He can’t believe he hasn’t noticed Arthur has an uncle before.

He dismisses the thought easily enough, giving Gwen a quick wave before grabbing his pack and heading up the stairs. By the time he makes it back to Gaius’s quarters, Merlin has all but forgotten Agravaine even exists.

Chapter Text

Merlin presses his forehead against the cool stone of the castle wall, his lungs squeezed tight like a fist is wrapped around them. It takes remarkable, considerable effort in order to actually breathe.

Merlin hates Samhain. He’s decided, officially, he’s anti-holiday. The amount of work there is to do! The amount of stress involved in decorating and cooking and cleaning and whatever the hell is on the backside of the list of duties Arthur gave him.

Merlin misses modernity. He misses vacuums like he’s never missed anything.

“Merlin…?” A voice calls. Even without looking, Merlin can hear that the concern in the knight’s voice is equally weighted with the amusement. “Shall I fetch Gaius?”

Merlin turns to Sir Leon with a wry grin. “And get me thrown in the dungeons for being late on his rounds? Please no.”

Sir Leon laughs. Merlin pushes away from the wall, keeping his expression light.

Camelot’s First Knight reaches out, helping Merlin up. Merlin knows that it’s a kindness—the first knight, paying attention to a servant of all people. But he can’t help but tense up. The warnings that his friends have given him ring loud in his ears, even after he’s promised himself to not give into fear this time around.

Sir Leon’s lips twitch, his expression falling briefly. He looks at Merlin with something akin to curiosity, which is the very last thing Merlin needs.

“Can I help with anything?” He tries to divert the knight’s attention.

Sir Leon shakes his head. “No, no. Thank you, Merlin. I was only heading to the stables when I saw you over here.”

Now Merlin’s curiosity is peaked. That is equally dangerous.

“Stables?” Merlin questions. Why would a knight be going there? Certainly not to muck anything, and the day’s riders have already gone and returned.

Sir Leon looks over his shoulder, then ducks his head, almost conspiratorially. Merlin’s brows leap at the implication of Sir Leon, First Knight of Camelot, sharing a secret with him.

“Arthur has sent us on a scouting mission,” he whispers. “Sir Elyan and I are leading the excursion.”

Merlin searches Sir Leon’s face. Though there is excitement in his eyes, the lines of his face are all straight—all duty. “What does he think you’ll find?”

Sir Leon’s expression grows grave. “Morgana.”

The name sends a shudder through Merlin. Recognition, and a terrifying lack of it, surges through him like a stomachache.

Sir Leon grimaces. He reaches out and lays a comforting hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Don’t fear, Merlin. I will return with useful information.”

“Be safe,” Merlin says on instinct.

“We shall.” Sir Leon smiles. This time, Merlin smiles back.

Merlin watches the knight leave, a curious feeling welling in his chest. As Sir Leon’s red hair disappears around a corner, Merlin makes a mental note to bring him up to Lancelot again. There’s something missing from the story there. Why would a knight everyone is afraid of Merlin getting close to so friendly?

“Merlin, thank the gods. Can you please take this to the Lord Agravaine’s chambers? I am so late—” Merlin turns to see Bronwen holding a large basket full of freshly laundered clothes.

The other servant is as sweaty as Merlin is, but pale, too.

Merlin has a half-full pouch of potions to deliver for Gaius, but there’s something in Bowen’s gaze that makes Merlin immediately agree. He takes the basket easily, shaking his head at her profuse thankfulness.

“It’s all good,” Merlin says.

Bronwen pauses, her brow furrowing. “What is good?”

Stupid English changing over the centuries, Merlin thinks. “It’s all good… because… It is all good because it is almost Samhain.”

Bronwen’s eyes narrow as she tilts her head. “All good, Merlin,” she says slowly, as if in greeting, but uncertainly. Merlin just smiles at her before darting away with Lord Agravaine’s laundry.

He turns back the way he’d came, up the stupidly long stairs. He wonders if he can convince Gaius to invent escalators. Of course, he’d have to start with electricity, and he’d probably get accused of sorcery, and then he’d have to blow his cover by not burning to death at the stake.

Merlin had been meaning to check out Agravaine since the day he got back from the forest. But things kept coming up, and the guy hadn’t done much beyond clearly manipulating Arthur’s heartstrings. Which, yes, that was enough to make Merlin glare beyond what is considered wise for someone of his rank, but it hasn’t been enough for him to full on snoop.

But if the opportunity is going to fall into his hands like a literal basket, well, he’s not a fool.

Merlin has to ask another servant on the way to the lord’s chambers, but he finds them easily enough. Just as he turns into the hall with his room, Merlin spies Agravaine turning down the far end connecting hall.

Which, as Merlin is well aware, leads to the only unsecure gate in the whole castle.

There and the back, servant’s way to the kitchens.

Merlin doesn’t even have to consider which is more likely for a man of Agravaine’s remarkably high-strung attitude would be going towards.

Merlin looks between the hall and the basket in anxious uncertainty. He wants to follow him but he promised Bronwen that he’d deliver these, and he knows it’s her neck that’s on the line if he fails…

“Are you alright, Merlin?”

Merlin’s head snaps up. Gwen and Lancelot are walking towards him.

Gwen looks nice today, Merlin thinks. Her hair is longer than he remembers, hanging down in long ringlets to frame her face. Her periwinkle dress is well fitted and particularly clean, especially considering how much work there has been for the preparation.

Lancelot looks the same as ever, if not a bit more… flushed.

While Gwen looks a bit concerned, Lancelot’s face is red and he’s looking anywhere but Merlin and Gwen, despite walking in step with her.

Interesting. Merlin files that away for later.

“Gwen, I beg of you, please put these clothes away for Agravaine.”

Gwen’s brows leap to the middle of her forehead. “So you can…?”

“Follow Agravaine.” Merlin whispers.

Gwen and Lancelot exchange glances, but Lancelot’s already nodding. “I’ll stay with him,” he promises.

“I can handle myself,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes.

Gwen takes the basket and points to Lancelot, a firm look on her face. “If this is just to get out of decorating for tonight’s feast—”

“He went down that hallway!” Merlin points.

Gwen pauses.

Lancelot’s brow furrows. “Why does that matter?”

Gwen glances at him, biting her bottom lip. “We use that hallway for a quicker route to the kitchens,” she explains. “It’s… Not particularly well lit, nor accessible for any other part of the castle.”

“Except the broken gate that I use to sneak out,” Merlin interrupts.

Lancelot and Gwen spin to him.

“That’s how you do it?”

“How you sneak out?”

Merlin waves his hands. “Agravaine’s escaping!” Merlin reminds them.

“Then go,” Gwen says, nodding her head towards the hall.

Merlin grins and takes off. He hears a swift curse and then footsteps—Lancelot catches up after just a few moments.

“Why are we following the Prince’s uncle?” Lancelot whispers.

Merlin shushes him.

“I did not know you suspected him of—”

Merlin shushes him again. Lancelot sighs.

Merlin peers into the hallway first. He glances back at Lancelot. “Keep watch,” he whispers. He turns back, and Merlin can feel the well of magic within him curl like smoke around him.

It feels good. Like stretching—like popping his knuckles. He hasn’t been able to flex very much since they came back to the citadel. Merlin’s magic can’t help but flare out here and there, but this is the first time he’s actively asked it to do something.

He looks ahead, like he has a million times, and the magic surges.

Merlin sees Agravaine. And, as expected, the guy isn’t just taking a short cut to the kitchen.

Agravaine is at the edge of the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. As he turns, Merlin’s magic follows him. He makes it all the way to the gate. Merlin curses, surging forward. He holds a hand out for Lancelot, who grabs it instinctively.

Merlin’s not so great with this double vision thing, so he crashes into Lancelot a few times—hence holding hands. Agravaine is moving quickly, which makes Merlin more aware that he is right. Agravaine is up to something.

Agravaine’s hand touches the gate that will lead him—anonymously—out of Camelot’s castle.

Merlin urges his magic forward, desperate to keep Agravaine in his sights so he doesn’t lose him as they make their way down the stairs. Magic kicks forward, pressing far into Agravaine—

Who stills completely, and turns. As if he could feel it.

Merlin rears back, surprise stilling him completely. Lancelot stumbles, accidentally yanking Merlin a few feet forward before he realizes that Merlin is stopped.

“What? What is it, Merlin?”

Merlin swallows hard. “It’s Agravaine… He’s… Looking at me.”

“He can see you?” Lancelot squeaks.

Merlin shakes his head. He cocks his head, squinting. Agravaine’s wild, nervous eyes are searching the empty hallway. When he sees nothing—because there is nothing to see—he flees.

The gate swings shut behind him. Merlin’s magic ricochets back to him, a rubber band being snapped.

“He couldn’t see me,” Merlin says, turning back to Lancelot. He blinks, clearing his vision. “It was… It was like he could feel my magic.”

Lancelot’s eyes widen. “Is that possible?”

Merlin shrugs. “I suppose.” He leans against the stone wall, crossing his arms. “You’ve felt my magic before, haven’t you?”

Lancelot furrows his brow. “Yes. I assumed it was because of our close proximity when you’ve done your magic.”

Merlin nods. “It’s difficult to feel magic that isn’t trying to touch you. You’d have to be familiar with it.”

“But how could he be familiar with your magic?” Lancelot shakes his head. “Merlin, I would have known if you had told Agravaine, truly, believe me.”

“I do,” Merlin assures. He wracks his brain. “I suppose other magic users can usually tell. Perhaps he uses magic.”

Merlin and Lancelot turn back towards where they came, heading back up the stairs they’d only just descended. “It seems so unlikely, Merlin. He is staunch in counsel. Aggressive, as Uther would have been. He guides Arthur with caution against magic at every turn.”

Merlin had noticed the same. “I suppose, if not his own magic, perhaps he is around other magic. He could be… Sensitive to it. Just from familiarity of the feeling.”

Lancelot turns to him. His eyes search Merlin’s, and Merlin startles when he realizes that within Lancelot’s gaze is something he never expected to see: Fear.

Then, for the second time this day, Merlin hears a name that rings panic through his bones, even as his mind draws a blank.

“Morgana.”

* * *

The festivities continue in bright fashion, even after Merlin has passed out.

He tries not to take offense that no one has stopped their drinking or celebrating when he hit his head hard on the floor.

“You are okay, aren’t you, Merlin?” Lancelot asks, concern pinching his voice.

Well. Not no one, then.

“You truly saw the Cailleach, the gatekeeper to the spirit world.” Gaius repeats.

Merlin tilts his head. “There must have been a tear in the veil between the worlds.”

Gaius’s brows leap. “You know of the Callieach?”

“I…  Must.” Merlin frowns. He regards Gaius with empathy. “You forget, I am an old man, Gaius.”

A shadow crosses his surrogate father’s face. “I suppose I do.”

The woman, clothed in black, surrounded by shadows borne of more than just fabric, had looked at him with such knowing. Such pity.

She’d known him.

Emrys.

Emrys.

Emrys.

Merlin shakes his head. Her voice, as serene as it was terrifying, had been trying to warn him.

But warn him of what?

He presses his hands to his forehead, rueing his awful memory.

“Did this… Happen before?” Gaius asks kindly.

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut. He feels a heavy hand on his shoulder. Lancelot is still there, an attempt to comfort him. Merlin struggles to focus.

“I don’t remember,” he whispers. “I should, should I not? If the veil was broken…”

“Try, Merlin,” Lancelot encourages, even as Gaius tsks with disapproval.

Merlin does.

Truly, he does. He tries to remember. He pictures the Callieach’s face, her sorrow, her pain. He feels something in his gut that is trying to spur him into action. Like the Callieach, Merlin’s own mind is trying to warn him of something.

Of someone.

He knows now that it must be Morgana. He has learned enough here to know that she is his enemy. He can’t imagine how—the complicated emotion that arises within him when he thinks of her does not feel like an enemy. But it is… Bitter. Stained. Wrong.

If Morgana has torn the veil…

If Arthur’s own uncle is working with her…

Well, Merlin needs his memories now more than ever.

He gets a flash—sparks like fire inside of his brain light up, but he sees it: Lancelot with tears in his eyes, icicles sticking to skin, Gwen’s head buried in her hands, flames on sticks, screaming—

“Merlin, Merlin, stop!”

Two large hands grab Merlin by the shoulders. He startles, head popping up. He has to squeeze his eyes shut instantly, the pain almost overwhelming.

“I was close,” he whispers, a complaint. “I—I saw something—”

“You’re bleeding,” Gaius interrupts. He bends over Merlin, nearly covering him with his whole body as he dabs at Merlin’s face.

Merlin rears back, reaching up himself. Blood drips from his nose.

“No more memories,” Gaius says.

Merlin raises his brow in what he considers to be an impressive re-enactment. “You’re the one who insists I need them.”

“That was before,” Gaius snaps.

Merlin turns to Lancelot for back up, but his friend’s face is tight. “Gaius is right, Merlin. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

Merlin wants to defend himself, wants to try again, but they have no room for it. Gaius warns him in no uncertain terms that a little blood will be the least of his worries if he tries again, and Lancelot vows to be a snitch.

So even when Gaius leaves Merlin’s bedchamber, Lancelot left on the small chair beside him, Merlin doesn’t try.

“It’s late,” Lancelot says. “If Morgana truly has done something, we’ll need our rest for tomorrow.”

Still, he makes no move to stand.

Merlin considers his friend.

“You know,” Merlin says, leaning back against his headboard. He’s still shivering, but he’s feeling much stronger. So he avoids wrapping the blanket around himself, if only to keep Lancelot’s worried expression at bay.

“What?” Lancelot asks.

Merlin feigns nonchalance. “I saw you earlier. With Gwen.”

Immediately, Lancelot’s eyes widen. “Of course you did. We spoke.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “I mean, I saw your face. You were downright smitten.”

“Merlin!” Lancelot gasps.

Merlin smirks. “I’m only saying.”

“Merlin, I promise, it was entirely proper—only a conversation.”

“Come on, Lancelot, conversations don’t have to be proper,” he teases.

Lancelot’s face turns practically apoplectic. Merlin chuckles.

“I’m glad this is funny to you,” Lancelot scathes, but he does not move away, so Merlin counts it as a win.

“Tell me, in all earnestness,” Merlin asks.

Lancelot looks to him with a vulnerability he does not think he’s seen on the knight.

“Guinevere and I have… Grown closer,” Lancelot says softly. He holds the words carefully, like they themselves could break. “I had feared that anything between us was long kindled in a fire, in the breadth of her feelings for Prince Arthur. But lately… I have begun to hope.”

“Hope,” Merlin says with feeling. “Is a very powerful thing.”

Lancelot ducks his head. “I believe that sharing your secret, it has given us a newfound… Honesty.”

Merlin’s heart hurts that perhaps he used to be the thing stopping them from growing closer. He reaches out, and presses his hand to the top of Lancelot’s.

“I am glad, my friend,” he says.

Lancelot smiles. “As am I.” He stands up, yawning as he goes. “Good night, my friend. I ask of you, do not strain yourself to remember more. Time will happen, regardless of if we are forewarned.”

Merlin inclines his head, nodding at his friend’s wise words.

And he does, to the best of his ability, try to heed them. He does not search for the memories again.

It’s not until later, when Merlin sees Drea, the orphan villager who has lost all, that he remembers anything at all.

He remembers flashes of a dark, empty village, one that smelled of death and pain even as he rode in.

He remembers the terror, his magic as useless as his hopes and dreams.

He remembers the loss, as heavy as any limb.

It heavies him. As he tries to remember more, he goes through the motions—accompanying Arthur on his journey to the village, trying to keep up with his chores, helping Gaius. He banters and he flinches and he tries his best to figure out how to stop this before it gets worse.

But the bodies keep piling up. And then, in real time, Merlin learns one more thing:

His magic is entirely useless.

As they stand around the table, Arthur looks to their uncles for guidance.

“What are they?” Arthur presses his thumb to his bottom lip, the worry between his eyes evident.

Gaius turns his grave expression to Arthur. “The Dorocha, sire. The spirits of the dead. On Samhain's eve, in the time of the old religion the high priestesses would perform a blood sacrifice and release them.”

“But who would do such a thing now?” Agravaine asks, his face crumpled in confusion.

Merlin watches him with the intensity of a vow.

“Morgana.”

“You see her hand in this? We know she was traveling to the Isle of the Blessed.”

“How do we defeat these creatures?”

“I don't know, sire.” Gaius says, and Merlin hates the way it trembles. “No mortal has ever survived their touch.”

And if Merlin’s not imagining it, Agravaine smirks.

* * *

Gaius’s voice is hesitant, but Merlin knows that it is not because he is wrong. This voice—This is the voice Gaius uses when he delivers terrible, unchangeable news to a patient’s family.

“If I am right and the veil between the worlds is torn then there's only one path open to us: To travel to the Isle of the Blessed and repair it.”

Fear coats Merlin the way ash would.

“And how do I do that?”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it, Gaius, not to him.

“I'm not sure, but for the tear to be created it would have required a blood sacrifice. To seal it will require another.”

Arthur’s face firms with resolve. “We ride before nightfall.”

“And who will be the sacrifice?”

It’s not a real question, though. Everyone knows what Arthur will say even before he does. Because with Arthur, there is never another choice.

Merlin’s heart turns to stone as he hears his king promise to die.

“If laying down my life will spare the people of Camelot then that is what I must do.”

* * *

Merlin’s heart has not healed in the hours that have passed from Arthur’s words.

They have repeated again and again in his mind. If anything, his heart has grown heavier. He thinks if only he could pluck it from his chest, he could defeat any enemy, Callieach or no.

As he prepares for battle—because what else is there, but a battle brewing between them?—he also prepares for the journey. Arthur has tasked him with preparing his pack. Which, of course, means also preparing his own.

As he crosses the castle, his heavy heart making each step more difficult, he hears Arthur’s soft voice.

This tone is not one Merlin knows well. He has rarely heard Arthur speak like this. He can’t help but falter in his step, leaning in to listen.

“Promise me you'll look after him when I'm gone.”

Merlin leans against the castle wall, eyes closing. He imagines, for one brief moment, that these words are for him.

“What is it?” Arthur asks.

I am afraid. I am so, so afraid to lose you, Arthur. I am afraid I won’t be strong enough to protect you. I am afraid that today is the day I fail. That I am destined to do nothing but fail you, over and over, again—

But Arthur was not asking Merlin.

He realizes, with a start, what is happening when he hears Gwen’s voice reply. “You don't have to go.”

“I do.”

“Please, Arthur, take care.” Gwen begs. “You are precious, not just the kingdom.”

Merlin’s eyes well with tears. He scrubs his hands down his face.

He’s wrong for listening in. He’s wrong for yearning.

“Smile,” Arthur murmurs gently. And Merlin feels as if he could weep. As if he could scream. As if he could break the world in half.

“I will smile when you return.” Gwen says sharply, her voice hardening with each syllable. “Do not pacify me, Arthur. You are my friend. Do not forget that there are people who love you, who don’t want to lose you.”

“Guinevere…”

“I will see you when you return, Arthur,” Gwen says, a plea and a threat all at once. “Promise. Promise me you’ll at least try to find another way.”

“Gwen….” Arthur’s voice is wrecked. Merlin places his hand over his mouth. “I promise. I will try.”

 Merlin is not fast enough to get out of the way. He scrambles, but Gwen makes it outside of Uther’s chambers before he can leave.

Her eyes widen with surprise, but almost instantly understanding fills them.

Merlin’s already stone-filled heart sinks further, ripping apart soft muscle and tissue as it goes.

He turns on his heels and flees.

Merlin will not let Gwen’s heart be broken. He won’t let Arthur break his promise.

He won’t lose anyone. Not this time.

Not ever again.

* * *

“The last one,” Gwaine says as he throws the last log in the fire. He looks up with a grim sort of awareness. “Maybe we should draw lots, see who gets some more.”

Night has fallen around them, and Merlin hates to admit the fear that’s running in his blood.

His magic is damn near useless. He uses it to light a fire here and there, to keep the flames stoked, but that is the most that he can do.

“I’ll go,” Arthur volunteers because of course he does. Never mind that he is the King, or at least as close to the King as Camelot has. He will never allow his men to enter danger that he himself could take.

“You’ll need help.”

Merlin interjects instantly. “I’ll go with him.”

The knights freeze. Concerned looks are passed, and Merlin tries not to be offended or annoyed.

“Are you sure you’re the right person for the job?” Arthur asks, popping an eyebrow and laying the disbelief on a little thick.

Merlin scoffs. “Since when have you known anything about collecting firewood.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. He mumbles something, likely an insult, but Merlin ignores it and stalks off after him.

As if I’m letting you out of my sight, Merlin thinks bitterly.

They gather the wood quietly. Arthur’s contemplative tonight, likely because he thinks any word he says might be his last, and Merlin is tight lipped, because he would admit to being from the future and having magic if it meant convincing Arthur to sacrifice him instead.

Merlin knows he’s not being particularly fair. He knows that this is hard on Arthur.

His people, dying. Haunted. Hunted. His own sister—and does Arthur know that yet? He thinks so. But he really should check in with Gaius about who knows what—and her betrayal the reason he’s at threat to lose everything.

Arthur deserves his contemplation. He deserves his sorrow.

But Merlin’s so pissed at him for throwing in the towel, for being the ‘hero,’ that he really could give a rat’s ass.

Without any more warning than that, a Dorocha comes screeching from overhead. Merlin’s eyes widen as he takes in the flying spirit, and he only has enough forethought to yell Arthur’s name after his hand has already grabbed the other man.

Merlin grabs Arthur by the chainmail, ignoring his spluttering sounds of protest. Merlin couldn’t care less if Arthur was offended or tried to sack him when this was all over. All he knows is that he did not travel thousands of years into the past only for Arthur to die earlier.

They race into the dilapidated shelter, and Merlin refuses to let go of Arthur even after they’ve lost the Dorocha.

“Merlin—”

“Sit down,” he snaps, practically throwing the King to the ground. Merlin decides it’s okay because he’s not technically king yet.

“Merlin!” Arthur scolds, his voice outraged.

Merlin turns to him, so withering and furious that he’s honestly surprised his eyes aren’t golden.

“How dare you,” he says softly, the anger inside of him as old as the Earth itself.

Arthur’s brows pull together in utter confusion. His eyes flicker across the room as he takes in Merlin’s aggressive stance.

Holding a hand up like Merlin is a wild animal, he gets up, his back against the stone wall.

A deep, guttural growl—and, okay, maybe Merlin does deserve this wild animal treatment—wells its way up Merlin’s throat. “Stay. Down.” He hisses.

If laying down my life will spare the people of Camelot, then that is what I must do.

Arthur’s words ring in Merlin’s head. He hears them, over and over again, like a voicemail on repeat. And it’s only making Merlin angrier, more desperate, because he can’t even explain what that feels like to Arthur because he doesn’t know a voicemail is.

“Merlin, is this really the time?” Arthur finally says, his brow tight as annoyance pulls at his face.

Merlin lets out a small, humorless laugh. “When would be better, sire? Shall I save my complaints for your funeral pyre?”

Both men flinch at Merlin’s harsh words. Merlin nearly chokes on them, and he feels that horrible swell of panic within him again as his vision spots black.

The wounded look on Arthur’s face is more painful than any weapon Merlin’s ever been on the wrong side of.

“You want to kill yourself,” he whispers. Merlin falls to his knees, right in front of Arthur, who by now has stood tall. He looks up at him, at his king, and he feels lost.

“That’s blasphemy,” Arthur replies, but it seems almost automatic, like on rote. He’s blinking at Merlin like he’s never seen him before.

And he hasn’t. He hasn’t, he hasn’t, not really.

Merlin is alone. Merlin is alone, and when Arthur dies, if Arthur dies, he’ll be all alone, all over again.

Merlin can’t do it.

He can’t do it, he can’t live through another millennia, another century, another day, not without Arthur.

He reaches out, and his fingers fist into the chainmail on Arthur’s thighs.

“Merlin,” Arthur breathes, and he slides down the wall until he, too, is on his knees. He reaches out, and he clasps Merlin behind the neck hard. “Tis a noble sacrifice for Camelot. My kingdom.”

In this moment, Merlin doesn’t give a fuck about Camelot.

With horrifying realization, he thinks perhaps he never has.

“I was born to protect my kingdom, Merlin.” Arthur explains softly, as if Merlin is a child.

Though truthfully, Merlin feels like one. He is as old as any tree outside of these ruined castle walls. He is as old as the dirt beneath his knees. But he feels like a child. And he craves to be told what to do, how to behave, where to put all this aching, painful love in his chest, just like a child.

“What about what I was born to do?” Merlin begs. “What about me, Arthur?”

Arthur pulls back as if struck. His wide eyes flicker as he blinks again and again, his lips parting, his grip tightening.

“You weren’t born for me, Merlin,” Arthur whispers.

Merlin’s head falls forehead, his chin smacking hard into his chest as he laughs and laughs and laughs, until there is no humor in this moment. Though, of course, there likely never was any to begin with.

“Oh Arthur,” he lets out on a single breath. “Of course I was.”

His eyes burn with unshed tears.

As his heart rate slows, he searches for any way out of this. For any way to convince Arthur to not want to do this. Of course, Merlin isn't above knocking him out.

Did this happen last time? All those years ago? How did Merlin get out of it then? How could he not remember?

The urge to know, the need to remember, is all encompassing. It's all consuming.

Remember, remember, remember, he chants to himself, to his magic. He stops asking. He demands it.

Like a light bulb exploding, a burst comes through: an air so cold, Merlin's teeth hurts, Arthur covered in dirt, his friends lining up to die...

Sometimes you puzzle me.

You never fathomed me out?

No.

I always thought that if things had been different, we'd have been good friends. That's if you hadn't been such an arrogant, pompous dollop-head.

We'll defeat the Dorocha. We will, Arthur. Together.

Well, I appreciate that. You know, you're a brave man, Merlin… Between battles.

You don't know how many times I've saved your life.

If I ever become king, I'm going to have you made court jester.

They say the darkest hour is just before the dawn.

It's pretty dark right now.

It can't be long then.

Merlin senses the spirit long before he sees it. The taste of it, the way the air crackles and the thought of woods explodes across his tongue—the smell of it, the burn of electricity, despite being centuries off from its existence. The fear of it, like his own death is around the corner.

The Dorocha.

He turns. Arthur lets go of him, or perhaps he let go ages ago.

Merlin cocks his head towards the incoming spirit. He feels all of his instincts begging him to run. Begging him to beg. To barter. To pray.

But there are no gods. There is no rhyme, there is no reason.

Right now, there’s just him.

The Dorocha flies towards him, the speed indescribable by the current time’s standards. Merlin sees the spirit coming, and he can hear the voices—

“Merlin, watch out!”

“Merlin!”

“It’s coming!”

“Merlin! No!”—

But he pays them no mind.

Instead, Merlin reaches out, his fingertips brushing the ghost.

And everything stills.

All at once, there is nothing. Like time itself is stopped, like the Earth has frozen on its axis.

Merlin looks at the Dorocha.

All he can think is that it looks so sad.

His fingers touch the cheek of what used to be a soul. And he feels the panic, the anguish, and the fear. He feels the cold.

His magic cringes away. It squirms, like it knows it is no match for the otherworldly spirit before him.

He looks over and sees his friends, frozen in terror.

They were on their way to him, he realizes. They’re racing towards him—bodies like carved stone, eyes wide and mouths split open with screams Merlin did not heed.

And in front of them, always, Arthur.

His expression is one of absolute despair. He’s reaching for Merlin with both hands. This is not a warrior. No blade is drawn, no attempt to grab the torch. The look on his face is not the one of a harried soldier, a regretful captain. This is the look of a friend.

Regardless of all else, on his side or on Arthur’s, they will truly always be friends.

Merlin knows it, like bones know to mend, like suns know to set.

He wishes to comfort Arthur.

He wishes to scream at him.

Instead, Merlin turns back to the Dorocha.

Merlin presses harder on its face. He presses his magic.

He presses, presses, presses---and magic splinters and sparks and ignites. It tries to cling to him, not wanting to go, not wanting to listen.

But Merlin’s magic does not make the rules.

The Universe does not make the rules.

Not anymore.

With one final push, Merlin shoves his magic into the soulless hole that is the Dorocha.

Its face twists. Awake at last.

Its eyes widen. Surprise crosses its face—then fear, just like the kind on his friends’ faces—before finally relief.

The Dorocha explodes. Time catches up to itself, and Merlin goes flying, unconscious before he even hits the floor.

Chapter Text

Arthur Pendragon, ruling prince of Camelot, has experienced an awful lot of agony for a man only just approaching his twenty-first year.

The loss of his mother, for one, is a wound so all encompassing, it nearly tore him to shreds from the moment of his birth.

The disappointment of his father, that is more like the aches of a chronic illness, plaguing him like a cough deep in his lungs when he moved too quick or the weather turned cold. Constant—memorable only for how bright and lovely being alive seems when it was missing.

The betrayal of Morgana, a woman he loved as he did no other. His sister, who he would have done anything for. His friend, who he lost.

And so many countless other scrapes and slices and punches to his person, physical or otherwise, has turned him into a strong warrior. A strong man, even if he often feels it more a facade than a trait. Arthur spent his life whittling away at his own personality, his own desires, to fit whatever the kingdom needs of him. He had, and would, give up just about anything for the kingdom of Camelot. For his destiny as its king.

Seeing Merlin lay motionless, covered with the white ice of the dead, he can only think now that this is asking too much. This is the universe, the gods, the kingdom, demanding more of him than he is able to give.

But it is more than that, too.

As he felt that day in dim light of his father’s nauseated, affronted gaze, vowing to abdicate from Camelot forever if only he would spare Guinevere and let them leave, Arthur admits a very rare truth to himself: This is more than he is willing to give.

His truest knights are already moving, legs pounding against cracked stone and dirt as they rush to his aide—to his, and Merlin’s.

From where he lay on the ground, his wide eyes are unblinking. Open. Frosted over.

Arthur stumbles forward. One step. Two.

“Merlin.” He says it, he thinks he does at least, but no one reacts—least of all his manservant. He tries again. Bile raises instead of sound. Arthur’s knee gives out. Two strong hands grip him, a horrified sire floating around his head, and Arthur manages to twist at the waist and point away from Leon before he releases the contents of his stomach.

Vomiting, his throat convulsing and burning, Arthur doesn’t tear his gaze away from Merlin.

“I saw sparks,” Elyan is saying, his words splitting together quickly, as if he is trying to get all the words out all at once. “The—the thing flew at Merlin, and it hit him so fast, it caused sparks. I haven’t seen that before!”

“It all happened so fast,” Percival says, shaking his head. “It was so fast.”

“I saw the sparks, too,” Leon says, and all heads—all but one, that is—swivel to him. His voice is grave and firm. Though he still has two hands on Arthur, one on his back and one on his chest, and Arthur realizes belatedly the knight is holding him up like a child.

“Sparks?” He manages, brows furrowing. His eyes dip to Merlin. He looks as if he’s been left in the snow. Sparks of fire would be good for him, would they not?

“Golden sparks.” Leon finishes.

The words sit between them all, as much a ghost as the Dorocha that cut through Merlin like a blade.

Arthur’s head is spinning. Aching. He can’t think straight. A wound has bubbled open like an arrow slicking through his skin, and he keeps seeing Merlin from just before the Dorocha arrived. His—his—Merlin as vulnerable as any man has ever been in front of him. Fingers clenched inside cold, hard chain. Tears in his wide, sea-blue eyes. Fear and anger and desperation twitching through his every pore. On his knees, looking up at Arthur, for abdication, for sentencing, for—

“What precisely are you accusing him of, mate?” Gwaine’s voice is sharp and furious. It shoots awareness back through Arthur like cold water tossed in a sleeping face. He blinks, and the colors in the room seem to surge back to their proper spots. When he blinks, tears fall down. He didn’t realize his eyes were watering.

“You saw what I saw—”

“I don’t think that’s true, mate—”

“Stop calling me, mate, Gwaine—”

“Oi, is that how it is, then, ma—”

“Quiet.”

His word is quiet, but as it is in all of Camelot, it is law. His knights stop their bickering.

Arthur looks at them, each of them.

Leon is still holding him tight, a steady weight and protection to his prince. Between them, Percival and Elyan seem troubled.

At his side, Lancelot has Merlin’s head in his hands. He does not even look towards Arthur—all his energy is on checking Merlin over for injury, for death—

And Gwaine. His eyes are locked on Arthur’s the moment Arthur slides his over. His chin is raised. His spine is straight.

Arthur finds his gaze not so difficult to hold. The longer he does, the more the lines on Gwaine’s face ease.

When he does finally break his gaze, the men look around like an answer might be waiting in the walls.

Or, he supposes, like a spirit might be lingering, waiting to swoop in when their fires dim.

“Sire, I mean no accusation,” Leon continues tentatively. “Only that there were sparks—magic—when Merlin made contact with the Dorocha.”

“It looked the same as all the others to me,” Gwaine tersely adds.

“Why would it be different now?” Arthur murmurs, looking around. Golden sparks or not, the attack was the same as any other. Merlin standing, turning around, and, the fool, reaching for the stupid Dorocha as if he could swat it away—then the spirit disappeared, Merlin went flying, and he fell.

Could they be evolving? If so, how did the golden sparks change things? Merlin was still alive—that was clear, at least, though he could not say for sure if all the victims died instantly. Perhaps the sparks were protection? Magic, then. But why would—

Realization this Arthur. His eyes widen, heart stopping for a brief moment before it triples in speed. Lancelot’s own face mirrors Arthur’s. He must have come to the same conclusion.

“I must tell you all something,” Arthur finally says. He steps away, if only so Leon knows that he is okay.

Lancelot looks up at this, a concerned pinch in his brow.

Arthur feels awful for what he’s about to do—for the confidence he is about to betray. But he takes heart in that though Merlin does not know it right now, these are his friends. Each of his men care for Merlin. They would not be his men if they did not.

“You all remember when Merlin fell ill on our hunting trip,” he begins slowly, watching them all carefully.

Leon’s eyes flicker as he remembers. “Sun sickness.”

“Gaius’s diagnosis,” Arthur agrees. “Also his lie.”

“Sire?” Elyan glances at Merlin.

Gwaine’s hand falls to the hilt of his sword.

Arthur can’t begin to parse through the complicated emotion that brings out in him. So he does not try. Instead, he soldiers on. “We do not know how, but Merlin was attacked.”

“Attacked?” Leon exclaims.

Arthur nods. “Magic.”

Lancelot jerks as if he himself has been burned. A quick look at Merlin’s skin tells Arthur he is still frozen. Only his flickering eyes and rising chest bring him any comfort.

Oh, Arthur wishes his could make it there—could be the one to press his hand to Merlin’s sternum, to lower his ear to Merlin’s lips. He wants to check on him.

But Arthur is prince first. And his duty now is to his knights, to their curiosity, to their fear.

“He was cursed. The druids said—”

“The druids?” Percival interrupts, brows halfway up his forehead.

Arthur swallows back his frustration. “Yes, the druids. They say Merlin was cursed.”

Leon’s gaze turns back to the servant.

Arthur feels terrible, sharing Merlin’s secret. But it would give no one any benefit to think Merlin a traitor, of all things.

“His memories are gone.”

Though Arthur tries to say it lightly, the truth of his feelings is clear in his voice. He can’t thin the weight of them, the heft of sorrow he feels knowing that this—this—this thing, this awareness of each other—is one sided.

Or not one sided.

He thinks again, unbidden, of Merlin’s fury, and his sorrow, moments before the Dorocha attacked.

Tears shining in his eyes—

Do I know you?

I'm Merlin.

So I don't know you.

No.

Begging Arthur on his knees—

Merlin, do you know how to walk on your knees?

He shakes his head. He needs to be strong. Camelot needs him.

Though Arthur can’t help himself. He glances at Merlin again.

Deep inside his chest, in between the knicks and curves and splits of his bones and marrow, this moment wedges itself like a tick. It sits between his mother’s invisible memory, between Uther’s apathy, between Morgana’s cold, unforgiving stare.

“His memories were taken. Only select things remain—more feelings than facts. He has been regaining them at an abysmal pace, to be honest with you all—” Arthur clears his throat.

“You think this—this dark magic is what we saw when the Dorocha attacked?” Elyan pieces together.

Arthur nods. “What else could it have been?”

Leon scratches at his chin, humming. “Perhaps the spirits feed on grief. Without memories, Merlin would surely have less pain, at least.”

Percival and Elyan turn to Leon, and the three continue to theorize.

Arthur, sick to his stomach, can’t get the image of Merlin’s trembling face out of his mind. When his eyes flicker up and accidentally catch Gwaine’s, he sees the exact same emotion mirrored in his knight:

Doubt.

* * *

Arthur looks at his half-frozen friend and feels the weight of the whole kingdom.

“We have to get him back to Gaius.”

Leon’s response is measured, though incredulous. “And abandon the quest?”

Arthur’s stomach falls. It squeezes tightly again. He fears he might be sick anew. “He saved my life. I won't let him die.”

Leon looks at him with pity. “Sire, if we don't get to the Isle of the Blessed, hundreds more will perish.”

Let them.

The thought is cruel—it is unkingly and unkind. It is not the kind of leader he wants to be, nor the kind of man.

But he looks at Merlin, who can do scarcely more than flicker his eyes around, and the thought stays firm like roots out of a tree.

“Let me take him.”

Leon and Arthur turn to Lancelot with surprise, though Arthur supposes that was short sighted on his part. He’s always known Lancelot’s devotion to Merlin. “Carrying a wounded man, alone it'll take you two, three days to reach Camelot,” he dismisses.

“Not if I go through the Valley of the Fallen Kings.” Lancelot rebuts. “You cannot give up on the quest.”

Leon inclines his chin. “Sire, he's right.”

I don’t care.

He turns to Merlin. As if he can sense the turmoil inside of Arthur, his manservant flinches and twitches. It seems to take tremendous effort, but he raises his gaze until his eyes are locked with Arthur’s.

“Leave us,” Arthur says.

Lancelot’s face tightens, but obediently follows Leon and the others. Arthur sits beside Merlin, stretching his legs out on the dirt. Here, like this, he can pretend there is nothing wrong with his friend—nothing more than a simple cold.

Merlin’s head lolls to the side, as if trying to look at Arthur.

His throat clenches painfully tight. “This is my fault, and I'm sorry.”

Merlin’s wandering eyes can’t quite find Arthur’s. “Take me with you, please.” His voice comes out scratchy and weak. Arthur’s heart triples in speed.

“You'll die, Merlin,” he whispers.

He thinks of Merlin that day in the field, on a hunting trip gone so awry in ways Arthur still can’t fathom. He thinks of the serious frown on Merlin’s face, so unlike his manservant. The calm way he’d said it: “I am dead.” And later, so improperly reaching out, touching Arthur’s cloak—“Was this before or after I died?”

Arthur can’t bear to lose him.

“You don't understand. Please, Arthur.” Merlin tries again.

Arthur’s fingertips ache. He wants to reach out, to touch him, to press against the fluttering pulse inside of Merlin’s wrists. He wants to know in no uncertain terms that Merlin is alright.

But Arthur’s hands remain steady in his lap. He doesn’t reach for them.

He searches Merlin’s face. Paler than usual. Flecks of frost in his brows. Dull, lifeless blue eyes.

Arthur spends a moment just looking at him, as hard as he can. He does not often allow himself such meandering thoughts or sentimental gazing. It’s entirely unbecoming of him. But…

Well, Arthur had been comforted, before. He… Whether or not this Merlin remembers their days together, he is still Arthur’s Merlin. And the idea of facing his end with Merlin by his side, well, it had been almost supportive enough for him to be… If not accepting of his duty, then willing.

He would go to the Isle of the Blessed, and he would sacrifice his life for Camelot.

And Merlin would be the last face he saw before he did so.

One of his people—his servant. The person in the world he perhaps owes the most to, as a servant of the kingdom himself. It was… Right. To die with Merlin by his side.

Arthur hates how much more frightening death seems now, knowing his goodbye to Merlin will take place days before his final moments.

He wishes Guinevere was here. Gwen always knew what to say. She was kind and brave and righteous, things that Arthur could never hope to be so naturally, things he’d spend his whole life trying to embody. Gwen would be able to put Merlin at ease and convince him to leave in one sweet sentence.

Lancelot likely could, too. They were similar in that way. But Arthur doesn’t want to call Lancelot over right now. Nor does he want any of his knights.

He just wants it to be him and Merlin. An adventure.

What about friendship? Merlin had asked, eyes glistening with joy—another rarity for the man, as much as it pains Arthur to admit.

Merlin is perhaps the truest friend Arthur has ever known.

If he were to lose him…

Well, he just can’t risk it.

You won’t be here to lose him, a terrible thought reminds him. Arthur’s eyes squeeze shut. He is, after all, heading to his death.

He flinches at his thought. Tightening his hands around his knees, he takes a deep breath. A noble sacrifice, that’s what he told Merlin. He meant it. He has always known he’d lay his life down for his kingdom. Though he’d hoped it would be decades from now, he cannot fault destiny the chance to save his people.

He glances at Merlin again. His blue eyes are so dull. So… Lifeless. Flickering, but like a dying ember, not a flame. Not the glorious, almost painful brush of fire that is normally within his gaze.

Arthur is willing to sacrifice his life for Camelot.

But Merlin had better be within its borders, alive and well, when he did so.

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” Arthur repeats, squeezing his eyes shut briefly. He swallows hard, pushing the emotion down within him. “We don’t know why that curse protected you from the Dorocha, but we cannot put our faith in magic. Lancelot will take you to Gaius.”

“Arthur—”

“Goodbye, Merlin.”

Merlin says his name again, but Arthur doesn’t hear it. He stands, staying his trembling hands by placing them around the hilt of his sword, and calls his men to attention.

If he gives his orders with his face twisted away so they can’t see the moisture growing in his eyes, well, no one says anything.

* * *

Once Merlin, strapped to his horse like a corpse, disappears from sight, it’s surprisingly easy to ignore all thoughts around his potentially dying manservant. As he’s done countless times before, he locks away the slivers of him that are Arthur, leaving behind only the strong echo of Prince.

The men travel for days. Outside of the Dorocha spirits threatening them, the Wilddeoren and gaja berries that they’ll smell for a fortnight, and the awareness that every step closer to his destination is actually a step closer to his own death, it’s a fairly easy journey.

Arthur’s men are there to… Guide him, he supposes. Protect him, as they have done several times, a scowl on their lips and a slice of the air with their torches.

He appreciates them. Elyan’s kind words, reminding him that they are all there by his side, to support him, not just Camelot. Leon’s steadfast loyalty, as ready to step in front of a blade as he is to step aside, should Arthur command it. Percival’s empathy, his large eyes trained on each spirit like their pain is his, too. Gwaine’s reluctance and guilt, as honest and noble as Arthur’s own.

Arthur’s men.

Minus the bravest and most noble of them all.

Arthur scrubs his hands down his face.

Merlin will be fine, he scolds himself harshly. Gaius will heal him.

Even inside of his own mind, the words feel flat. Empty.

Merlin’s life is hung in the balance from a magic that he can’t possibly begin to understand. Arthur wishes he’d done more in his time back in Camelot. Scoured the library for whatever books survived his father’s purge. Begged the druids for more information, for more answers. Gone to Gaius. Done whatever it took to find out why Merlin was being plagued by magic, by a curse.

Thank the gods for it.

The thought comes sudden and unbidden. He startles, his eyes blinking rapidly.

Around the fire, his men glance up in question. He shakes his head subtly, and they continue their conversation—mocking Gwaine’s socks, of all things—and Arthur falls deeper into his thoughts.

He was…. Thankful.

He is thankful. For magic.

The very thing that plagues his kingdom like a disease. Magic corrupts and steals and kills. Arthur knows this better than anyone. He’s lost so many people to it.

But now…

Well, it might just have been the thing that saved Merlin’s life.

Arthur can barely wrap his head around it. How could a curse that took Merlin’s memories from him also be the thing that kept him safe from the Dorocha? Perhaps the very fact of having magic within his person due to the curse kept the Dorocha’s own magic at bay? It is not like Arthur would know if other magically cursed, or magic users even, had been affected.

He curses his own lack of information. He wishes he knew—knew anything.

Tomorrow, when Arthur laid down his sword for the final time… Well, it would just be a lot easier if he knew that Merlin was going to be okay. That all is people were going to be okay.

A sound from his right shocks him back into his body. Wistful tonight or otherwise, Arthur is a trained knight of Camelot, and no one will break into his camp without him knowing—

He’s alert, as are the rest of his men. His hand flickers to his sword. A part of him aches for it to be someone—someone with flesh and blood. He’s tired of fighting shadows.

Then, to his utmost surprise, Lancelot walks in.

Around him, his men relax.

Arthur, however, stiffens. “How’s Merlin?” He asks immediately.

Though Lancelot’s expression is neutral, he shakes his head. “Bad news.”

Dread—dread and despair and horror, all three a cocktail that sends Arthur’s stomach clenching and sweat prickling and—

“He’s still alive.”

Summoned by Lancelot’s dramatics, Merlin turns the corner. His skin sings with blood and warmth, his color fully returned—as is his smile, all wide, pulling at his cheeks, his red cheeks, rosy from the cold of the night, because, oh, it is cold. It is quite cold, actually. Arthur shoots back into his body, awake for the first time in days, it feels like, and he’s hungry and sore and cold and—and—and—

Everyone has hugged Merlin, walking a few steps away to give him a semblance of privacy. And Merlin is looking at him, his kind eyes as blue as the sky and crinkling in the corners.

Arthur’s throat swells with untouchable emotion. “Good to see you, Merlin.”

“Good to see you, too.” Merlin replies softly.

Arthur can’t stop himself from reaching out. He clasps Merlin on the shoulder. When that’s not enough, he winds his hand to the back of his head, just holding him there for a moment, squeezing tight. It’s not a comforting grip, necessarily, but Merlin softens in it all the same.

It is late, and after being assured that both Merlin and Lancelot have eaten, the group settles around their fire.

“I’ll take first watch,” Arthur volunteers. His eyes flicker to Merlin. The smallest dip of his chin is all Arthur needs to know that Merlin will stay up with him.

It is not quite joy that is winding its way through Arthur’s chest. And it’s not quite relief, either. But it’s something between the two, something that Arthur has only felt a handful of times in his whole life.

Like…

Maybe everything will work out after all.

As his men fall asleep, Merlin’s eyes stay locked on Arthur. He has about a thousand questions—he certainly hadn’t made it all the way to Camelot and back, so he must have been healed somewhere closer. How? What has happened in the last three days, separated from each other? Did he learn anything new about this curse? Is he afraid, knowing that it was magic that saved him?

But surprisingly, Arthur finds himself entirely uninterested in the answers. He doesn’t want to break the tenuous peace that he has finally found, on what likely amounts to be his last night on earth.

Arthur just closes his eyes, the fire warming his face, and imagines that he can hear the heartbeats of all his men around him. All of them, safe, alive. He has nothing more to ask for.

Merlin’s eyes are already trained on him when he opens his again. “Everything will be fine. It’s going to be alright.” Merlin comforts.

Arthur’s chest pulls painfully. He clears his throat. “I’m just tired.”

Merlin’s never been one to fall for Arthur’s bravado. Memories or not, it seems that this time is no different. Softly, he urges Arthur: “You don’t have to sacrifice yourself.”

“I have to save my people.” Arthur corrects. He needs Merlin to understand.

“I will take your place.”

Merlin might not remember their past, but Arthur does. He remembers the way Merlin’s face looked, merely weeks after arriving in Camelot, when he drank that poisoned chalice. The fear there, yes, but also the… The… Confidence. The comfortability. A willingness to die for him. And again, when Arthur failed his test, risking all of Camelot, and Merlin there, another poison between them, willing to take on Arthur’s failure just as he is now.

A willingness Arthur could not bare even all those years ago.

His whole body rejects the mere idea of this. “Merlin—”

“What is the life of a servant compared to that of a prince?”

And, oh, what pain it is to hear that. Arthur has always hated the idea that his life was somehow inherently worth more than others because of how he was born. He’d fought against his father for the very same words. But this twists like a knife in Arthur’s core. Seeing on Merlin’s face that he believes it. And, no, not because he is prince, no matter what Merlin is saying.

He knows Merlin too well to think it is because of their station that he is offering his life.

And somehow, that is worse. It hurts worse. To know that it is because of him. Because of who Merlin is. Because of how he cares for Arthur.

He thinks as hard as he can for something to say. For something that means what he is feeling in his chest. This regret and guilt that Merlin, who is a good man, a brave man, is willing to take his place. He thinks of Elyan, telling him that his men are there because of him. He thinks of Leon holding him up after he was too weak to even stand up on his own legs after seeing the Dorocha attack Merlin.

He thinks of Merlin’s eyes twinkling.

What about friendship?

“Well, a good servant’s hard to come by.”

It’s not enough. It’s not the words he wished he’d said. But… Merlin’s eyes soften. As always, he gets it.

“Well, I’m not that good.”

“True.” Arthur lies. When Merlin seems like he might say something else, Arthur knows he won’t be able to bare it. So he prattles on. “One thing.”

Merlin inclines his head.

“Look after yourself.” He asks. Merlin’s eyes widen with surprise, as if he was not expecting those words. “Without your memories, Merlin, I… Well, I should be there to protect you. But if I can’t be… I want you to be safe in life, you deserve that.”

It is the closest to admission, to confession, as Arthur has ever gotten with Merlin. The nearest to acknowledgement that this friendship between them truly does matter to him as much as it does to Merlin. In his heart, he knows that it matters moreso even to him. He has always felt too… Not prideful. Not afraid. But again, something in the middle.

But now, seeing the way Merlin’s eyes grow wide and wet as he nods, Arthur is glad he mustered the courage to say something. He is a good friend. And he deserves to mourn Arthur knowing that he is appreciated.

When Merlin replies, Arthur sags in relief. He lets himself fall asleep, assured by the confidence in Merlin’s voice when he said, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure.”

* * *

Arthur has not spent a tremendous amount of time around magic users.

Of course, the odd beast here and there, a witch determined to kill him, a sorcerer who plans to take over Camelot. He is aware of magic. But it isn’t as if he breaks bread with them or takes them along on his hunts.

Still, when he sees the Callieach, he knows it is no ordinary magic user.

“It is not often we have visitors.” The being says, as if amused by him.

Though her visage is an elderly woman shrouded in dark cloth, Arthur can’t help but think he is not seeing all that she is. Still, he lifts his chin and squares his shoulders. “Put an end to this.” He says. “I demand you heal the tear between the two worlds.”

If anything, this amuses the Callieach more. “It was not I who created this horror. Why should it be I that stops it?”

Arthur flinches. In her words, he hears his defeat. He hears his father’s voice. Demanding that he let Merlin die rather than give him the Morteus flower. Demanding he abandon the people of Ealdor because it lay outside of Camelot. Of the men around his father’s counsel who wanted the gates closed.

Despite his anger, it is Merlin’s furious voice that interjects. “Because innocent people are dying.”

The Callieach turns to him, eyes brightening. “Indeed.” She laughs heartily. Arthur fears he will be sick again.

Against what Arthur hopes is his best judgement, Gwaine surges forward, his sword already raised. The Callieach swats him like he’s a fly before he even makes it a step.

Turning to him with boredom, she raises a brow. “Is this the best you can do?”

No. No, Gwaine’s anger-induced spasm isn’t the plan here.

Gathering his courage, Arthur nods. “I know what you want.”

The Callieach considers him. “Do you? And are you willing to let me have it?”

I'm prepared to pay whatever price is necessary.

Arthur has the words all lined up between his teeth and his tongue. He’s ready to say them. Ready to live them.

He will die for Camelot. But Camelot will prosper. Camelot will go on with his uncle’s protection. And though some will suffer—he thinks of Merlin. Of Gwen. Of his knights with a pang in his heart—the kingdom will survive.

He opens his mouth, and thinks, I wonder if I will see Mother—

And then Merlin’s hand clasps around his wrist, twisting at the bone there enough to shock Arthur into stumbling back, and Merlin’s hip is in front of his, pushing, nudging, and Arthur is hidden behind Merlin’s body like some fair maiden—

The hair on Arthur’s neck stands straight up. Staring at the back of Merlin’s head, he sees the Callieach’s eyes grow wide—with fear.

“No,” Merlin says, his voice low and steady. “He will not be your price.”

Chapter Text

The dark ruins on the Isle of the Blessed spread out so far, Merlin feels it like he feels time. It feels endless. Forever. Trapping. He feels confined by it—worse, he feels abandoned by it.

This is a place of magic. A place where he should be strong and safe.

But it’s twisted. Tainted. Poisoned. Merlin feels like he could choke on the disgust that lives here.

The split in the world is the only light Merlin can see, a terrible slice like a wound where the Dorocha seep out. In front of it, the guardian of the gate stands with terrible amusement shining in her eyes.

And between them, stands Arthur.

Arthur, who is brave and courageous and kind. Who warned him to watch out for himself, a plead he thought would be his dying wish.

Merlin knew then in a way that he had never known anything that he wasn’t going to lose Arthur today.

He wasn’t going to lose anyone. Himself included.

Merlin would sacrifice himself for Arthur. He knows that he would. But he also knows the Callieach won’t accept him as a sacrifice. Can’t. His magic thrums beneath his veins, as effortless as the dirt inside the earth, and infinitely as immovable.

If Merlin could die, by God, he would have done so already.

He knows all to well no matter the wound, the magic, or the blood, his life force remains as stagnant as air.

So he’s going to do something else. A better plan than he is sure he had last time.

“I know what you want.” Arthur says. His voice does not waver. He doesn’t tremble. He is strong and oh so brave. Merlin’s heart squeezes.

The Callieach considers him. “Do you? And are you willing to let me have it?”

Merlin’s world narrows.

He has a lifetime bubbling beneath his skin. He has hundreds. He has the memory of Arthur in the sunlight, eyes squinting as he laughs, bright and cheery from his chest. Merlin can’t place it. One week ago? A thousand years? He thinks of the cold press of a sigil being placed into his palm. He thinks of Arthur on his knees, the king’s crown lowering on his head. He thinks of a boy in a marketplace, hopeful and surprised.

Merlin’s magic surges, hot, hot, hot—it wants to wrap Arthur like fingers around a fist. It wants to throw itself at the Callieach, desperate to prove itself. It wants to freeze all of time to give Merlin more time to think.

But Merlin doesn’t need more time. Right now, he doesn’t even need his magic.

He reaches for Arthur, fingers curling around his wrist. He pulls, shifting, using his body to push Arthur behind him. He hears a grunt of surprise from Arthur, but Merlin doesn’t risk diverting his attention. He doesn’t want to knock Arthur out or subdue him with magic, but he will if he needs to.

“No,” Merlin says, his voice low and steady. “He will not be your price.”

The Callieach’s expression shutters.

Merlin knows better than to think she will be cowed so easily. But he also knows that magical beings do not survive as long as the Callieach has without learning a thing or two about risk mitigation.

She surveys Merlin. He feels a slight probe—almost as if she is touching his magic.

He holds it close to his bones. He doesn’t want her to know exactly what it is he can do.

Her inability to truly feel him out shows on her face. Trepidation. And, if Merlin isn’t mistaken, a bit of fear.

“So you will challenge me, Emrys.” She says, a slow smile growing on her lips.

Merlin stiffens. He was hoping Arthur wouldn’t hear this.

“Perhaps,” he tries, his tone almost bored. He can hear Arthur’s sharp inhale, his confusion, and Merlin feels a burst of guilt.

Emrys will be hard to explain away.

So will this whole conversation, though, and Merlin has learned one lesson well in the past two thousand years: deal with bridges as you get to them.

“Merlin, stand back,” Arthur commands.

Sorry, Arthur. “Not going to happen.”

His eyes snake over to Lancelot, who was inching closer. He shakes his head imperceptibly. His friend’s face flickers uncertainly, but after a moment of prolonged eye contact, he juts his chin a little, stepping back, hand on his sword and attention on Arthur. He holds still, so Merlin turns his attention back to the Callieach.

“Name another price.” Merlin’s voice is strong, clear. He leaves no room for misinterpretation.

The Callieach’s eyes narrow. “I will not.”

“Then you will leave here empty handed.”

“Merlin,” Arthur whispers furiously.

Merlin tightens his grip on Arthur’s wrist. From the way he inhales, Merlin knows it hurts. He will feel guilty about that a little later on, but for now, he keeps it strong as a warning.

“I can ask no other price,” the Callieach parries.

Merlin considers if she’s lying. He considers if she’s not.

The Callieach seems pleased by his indecision. That settles it for Merlin. “You can’t name your price at all,” he surmises.

The Callieach’s eyes squint as she smiles. “The death of the Prince will close the door.”

“The door will close without it,” he reminds her.

Arthur leans in even closer, his breath on the back of Merlin’s neck. “Merlin, the people of Camelot—”

“Need their king,” Merlin dismisses Arthur’s heroism. He’s so young. All brash words and desperate sacrifice. It’s brave, yes, but it’s also reckless. Merlin thinks wisdom is wasted on the old.

“You deny your king his freedom,” the Callieach taunts.

Predictably, Arthur bristles. “He has no right.” He says, voice hard. He yanks away from Merlin’s grip.  Merlin could use his magic to subdue him now, but his heart aches to consider such a thing. Merlin has very rarely used his magic against his king, and he does not wish to add to the tally if he doesn’t have to.

Arthur steps forward. Merlin matches him. He hears Lancelot shuffle closer, too.

Arthur gives them both a tight, betrayed look. “You are a servant, Merlin,” he hisses, eyes narrow.

Merlin tilts his head. “Yours,” he agrees. “Let me serve you.”

He nods his head, indicating for Arthur to step aside.

If anything, Arthur’s expression grows colder.

Merlin realizes with a start that Arthur thinks he is denying him something. Standing in his way. Abandoning Camelot and her people. Being a coward. Asking him to be a coward, too.

He has sympathy for the young prince. He has love in his heart for him.

But he has no patience for fool’s errands. Not anymore.

“Accept another price,” Merlin rephrases, slowly tearing his gaze away from Arthur’s to give the Callieach a final warning. “Or the door will close, and you will have nothing at all.”

“You haven’t the power,” the Callieach scoffs. “I am the keeper of the door—”

“If the only thing that will close that door truly is death,” Merlin says softly, moving forward. Arthur says his name, but Merlin can hear the shuffle behind him—Lancelot, a hand to Arthur’s chest, holding him back. He trusts in his friend more than he ever has before. He trusts in Lancelot to keep Arthur safe. “Then yours should work as well as any other.”

The Callieach’s face drains of amusement. Merlin takes no pleasure in it; but he sees the way fear crowds her eyes, tugs at her lips. When she inhales, Merlin can taste the terror in the air, like a fog permeating the room.

“You… You can’t,” she says, though Merlin can see that she isn’t sure. “You aren’t—”

“Look closer, witch,” he urges gently. “Then you tell me what I can and cannot do for the Once and Future King.”

She shakes. He can see it, the way she trembles. The way she sees closer—the way the Druids had. The way Merlin himself can. The power nestled inside of his chest, older than makes sense, older than his bones. He is not just a magic user. He is not just a warlock. He is not just Emrys. Not as the world he now lives in knows him.

Not, he knows, as anyone knows him.

“A sacrifice,” the Callieach finally gives in, her eyes closing with considerable effort. “Must come from the heart.”

Merlin nods. “That is why life works,” he says. “But not life chosen.”

“Only given,” the Callieach agrees.

A sound behind him draws his attention. Merlin turns, ever so slightly, and sees Arthur trying to shake free from Lancelot’s hold. When Lancelot catches Merlin’s eyes, he dips his head and lets go. Arthur stumbles for a moment, but recovers quickly.

The look he sends Merlin stings all the way through him like a sword. He winces, forcing his lungs to inhale and exhale the entire time Arthur strides closer. When he finally looks away, the hard, steely look of a king on his face, Merlin feels pain like he never has before.

But then his eyes dip lower. Arthur’s chest moves, up and down, as his lungs and heart beat. And Merlin feels no guilt, even if his pain is spreading.

Lancelot comes to Arthur’s other side. The two of them flank their king. When Arthur takes one small step in front of them both, he looks to Merlin with a brow raised.

What will you do?

Merlin turns back to the Callieach, but does not push his king behind him again. He feels green with nausea.

“Who determines the strength of sacrifice?” He commands.

The Callieach’s expression morphs again, impish and uncaring, but Merlin narrows his eyes. The Callieach glances at him, faltering, and then turns to Arthur with what could only be called petulant reluctance.

“The Gods.”

“Not you,” Arthur confirms.

“I am but a messenger of the Gods.”

Merlin scoffs. “More like a doorman.”

Anger flashes in her eyes, but the Callieach remains still. Merlin’s power bubbles under his skin like a pot of water.

“How do we… Suggest a sacrifice?” Arthur looks between them, that pinch of concern between his brow. Uncertainty. Merlin hates to have done this to him. Perhaps it would have been better to knock him out completely.

“You cannot,” the Callieach says. “And you only have one chance.”

Arthur’s expression leaps. He turns to Merlin. “Is this true?”

Merlin swallows hard. “How would I know?”

Something indescribable flashes in Arthur’s eyes. “How, indeed.”

Merlin looks away. He can’t bear to keep Arthur’s eyes right now.

Lancelot shifts. He angles so that he is facing both of them, not the Callieach. It turns them almost into a huddle.

“The sacrifice must need to be powerful,” he whispers. “If death is a reasonable alternative.”

“I will do what is right for Camelot.” Arthur insists. “I will sacrifice myself—”

“I could do it,” Lancelot offers quietly. Merlin feels a flash of something inside of him, rolling like a body ache—a vicious bout of déjà vu that sends him spiraling.

“I will not lose either of you.” Merlin will not negotiate, not here. He will not lose his family.

“Gaius said death,” Arthur reminds them, tightly held agitation in his voice. “He said human sacrifice. Surely if there were other sacrifices that would work, he would know.”

Merlin shakes his head. “Gaius does not know everything.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “And you do, Merlin?”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. How to say anything to that.

“Merlin has much life experience,” Lancelot says offhandedly, his eyes focused on the dark slit of space behind the Callieach.

Arthur scoffs. “He has less years than either of us,” he says, rather unkindly. “He’s a boy.”

Lancelot startles. Merlin looks to the ground. That pain, again and again, comes washing over him.

The pain of secrets. Of lying. Of shoving himself, heart, mind, and soul, into a box so much smaller than the contents. Of feeling like he is always one day away from losing everything, one decision away from losing himself.

He teeters inside of himself. The anger radiating off Arthur, the concern off Lancelot—the way his magic somehow encompasses both things so spectacularly, so horrifyingly. He feels it all inside of him like a mountain side about to burst.

“Your memories.”

Lancelot says the words slowly, almost soft.

Merlin looks up, frowning.

Arthur does, too.

“What about them?” Arthur asks impatiently.

Lancelot wets his lips, eyes flickering between both of them. He covers his face with his hands. When he pulls them away, there is nothing but grief.

“What is life if not memories?” Lancelot’s eyes shine. He reaches out, clasping Merlin’s hand like a knight would, right below the elbow. “What is grief if not loss?”

Realization dawns the way the ocean tide rises up a beach. Almost imperceptible. Almost deadly.

“What are you—” Arthur cuts off, his annoyance fading. His eyes widen. “Merlin, no.”

But it’s a good plan. It’s a good plan, one that Merlin knows in his bones the Gods will accept.

“Your memories are already gone,” Arthur says, brow furrowing. “You can’t sacrifice something you don’t have.”

Chest concaving, heart skipping, Merlin shakes his head. “Not gone. Buried. Lost.” Merlin grips Lancelot tighter. He searches his face, full of something almost like longing, before he turns to Arthur. “But in a few minutes, they will be. Gone. Gone forever—”

“Merlin, I—”

“Stop it,” Merlin interrupts. He clenches his eyes shut for a moment, dropping Lancelot’s arm. “Give us a moment, Lancelot.”

Lancelot nods. “I will check on Gwaine.”

He walks off, and Merlin turns to Arthur.

“I know you’re angry,” he says softly. Arthur’s eyes flicker across his face. His expression jumps from one emotion to the other, as expressive as Merlin has ever seen him. “I know you have questions—”

The expression lands:

Devastated.

“Do you have magic?” He asks. Arthur’s eyes implore into Merlin, his lips parted and cheeks pale. “Merlin, is—I’ve—Please, tell me I’m wrong. Like you always do. You always tell me when I—I’m being wrong or bullheaded, or… Merlin.”

Merlin holds his gaze. His eyes swim with tears. His body feels like it is weighed by a thousand rocks.

“I’m not… I’m not blind, Merlin,” he says, pushing his hands through his hair,, running them down his face, clenching them together—Arthur is not an inactive man, and this conversation, the stillness of it, the frozen way Merlin can’t move, must be grating on him. “I’ve seen the—the coincidences. But that’s all this is, right? Merlin, there’s a good explanation for—this.”

He looks into Merlin’s face like he will see more than just teary eyes and wobbly chin. Like Merlin’s expression will tell him how all of this is an elaborate joke, a strange circumstance that can be easily talked away.

But Merlin has held onto the truth and pain and love of knowing Arthur Pendragon for two thousand years.

And in a few moments, he will be without it.

He has loved Arthur for longer than anyone should have the right to.

Preparing to lose it all, this love carved into his ribs like marrow sticks to bone, is the worst moment of his very, very long life.

“Arthur,” he says softly. He reaches forward. Arthur flinches, and Merlin’s heart breaks anew, but he pushes forward, and he presses his fingertips to Arthur’s cheek. “Everything I have ever done, I have done for you.”

Arthur’s eyes flutter closed. When he opens them again, tears spill out down his cheeks. The blue in his eyes is as bright and devastating as any storming sky.

“No,” he whispers. “No, Merlin, I don’t… I can’t believe this.”

“I would have done anything for you, Arthur,” Merlin continues his confession. “I kept Camelot safe, you understand? Even now, after all these years, it’s still there, it’s safe, it’s empty, it’s waiting for your return—” Merlin feels the years stacking up inside of him, blocking his throat, centuries of speeches he’s written and re-written merging together as he opens his lips for the first time to his king.

“Merlin, I don’t understand—”

“She’s beautiful even now, even from the grass, Arthur, you would be proud of her now, time hasn’t—” He shakes himself, fingers pressing firmer into Arthur’s face, the coolness of his tears beneath Merlin’s fingertips. He realizes that he is crying, too. “Magic loves you, Arthur. No matter what else you know in this life, know that magic itself believes in you.”

Arthur ducks, capturing Merlin’s eyes. He covers Merlin’s hand with his own, desperation as strong in his eyes as it is in Merlin. “What are you saying?”

“I am loyal to you, my king.”

“Merlin—”

“I offer my memories in sacrifice,” he says, turning to the Callieach.

“Merlin, wait—”

The Callieach smiles. It reaches her eyes. “I accept.”

“Merlin? Merli—”

“Merlin, no!”

“Goodbye.”

And everything goes black.

Chapter Text

Arthur spins his mother’s ring on his thumb. The familiar curl of gold feels like comfort against his skin.

As a child, Arthur was not often allowed to indulge in his infantile urge for comfort. He’s certain his father held him when he was a babe, the soft reminiscing the stern king would sometimes indulge after a certain amount of drink his only proof. He remembers a nanny, a kind woman with a wide, soft belly, who sometimes would let him lay his head on her lap while brushing his hair. He must have been… Five? Six years old?

He remembers Guinevere, hand gentle on his chest when she kissed him. He wonders sometimes if the love he feels for her could ever be big enough, soft enough, for her to feel from him what he does for her.

He remembers a knight he spent one summer training under, back when he’d just started to train with the broadsword. He must have been twelve. The knight would ruffle his hair the way Arthur had seen fathers do with sons, older brothers to younger ones. Sometimes he’d leave that hand on top of Arthur’s head for an extra few moments, while distracted or talking to someone else.

Arthur spins the ring again and again and again.

Across the fire, Merlin sleeps, covered with one of their cloaks. He isn’t sure whose cloak is draped over the manservant—the sorcerer—but it’s huge over him. He’s curled up fairly close to the fire, Elyan and Gwaine sitting beside him. Gwaine’s sword is sitting protectively in his lap. He’d made a quite elaborate show of sharpening it earlier. Arthur thought it unnecessary, but if he’s being truthful with himself, he doesn’t have the energy to care about yet another show of disrespect.

He knows his father would have Gwaine removed from his position for such an act, if not worse.

He also knows what his father would do to the sleeping, vulnerable sorcerer.

Arthur looks away, eyes back to his mother’s ring.

Morgause had shown him his mother. Years ago, in a clearing not so dissimilar to the one he’s in now, an apparition that looked so much like the portraits of his mother. He’d believed her. Instantly, he’d believed her. They’d had the same eyes.

He had been ready to kill his father. His father. His king. Arthur would have slain him on principal, on justice. The war against magic… The genocide… Could it have all been because of his father’s own guilt?

Merlin had been the one to tell him not to kill his father. To suggest that his father was innocent. That Morgause was lying. Merlin had not said, but had implied, implied heavily and never corrected, that his father’s war was justified.

Why would he do that? Why?

Arthur’s stomach churns and churns, milk curdling to butter, because he knows that he’ll never know.

Merlin doesn’t remember.

Not that lie. Not that decision. Not him. Not anything.

“Sire?”

Leon’s voice is soft, almost as if underwater. Arthur turns, brows furrowing together, but Leon looks completely dry. Normal.

“Sire, perhaps you should get some rest,” he suggests gently. “I can keep watch.”

Without intending to, Arthur’s eyes flicker to Merlin.

“I’ll stay awake,” Lancelot offers quietly. “In case Merlin wakes up—”

“What difference would it make?” Arthur interrupts, not kindly. “Who is awake? He won’t recognize you any more than the rest of us.”

Arthur knows he is not being kind or generous or benevolent, as he always strives to be as a leader. He knows he is being rude and petty, his anger like a carefully coiled wire.

Lancelot inclines his head. His eyes are downcast. Ever since the Callieach disappeared, Lancelot’s eyes have been downcast.

Arthur woke Gwaine. Lancelot filled him in while Arthur carried Merlin.

No one has said anything really. Although someone must have, because the other knights know what happened.

Arthur had walked off, only one command for his men: “No one touches him. No one says anything.”

By the time he came back, the night had fallen, and the fire was blazing. Merlin’s breathing is even and steady, though he hasn’t woken.

Arthur’s throat is tight. “I’m not sleeping. Rest, and we will return to Camelot at daybreak.”

Gwaine’s eyes find Arthur’s. “All of us?”

His anger pulses. He breathes through it the way his father taught him.

Then, with all the ire inside of him, all the pain and confusion and betrayal, he snaps out another lesson from his father:

“Until I give you reason to doubt me, Sir Knight, find it within yourself to restrain from challenging me.”

The threat is not hidden. From the way Percival freezes, Leon straightens, and Gwaine contemplates him, he knows that his point was made.

Thankfully, Gwaine nods.

Arthur looks away again. He’s grateful Gwaine has withheld his fear. Arthur is so exhausted. He’s… He thinks Gaius might have the right terms for it. But all Arthur can think is that if he was not Prince, he would like to be as asleep and unknowing as Merlin is.

Arthur isn’t tired. He doesn’t think he could sleep a wink, even though he is exhausted. The knights spend the night in various intervals of sleep. Even Gwaine eventually falls asleep, though he does so sitting up with one hand on his sword and the other on Merlin’s shoe.

Lancelot stares at the fire mostly. Arthur does, too.

When dawn finally hits, Arthur stands. A few of his knights stir, but no one wakes up. He exhales, relieved. Arthur stretches, twisting his spine, cracking his neck. He prepares himself for riding back to Camelot—for finding his people. For announcing that the kingdom is safe. For looking his people in the eye and telling them he saved them.

He didn’t do anything.

Merlin did.

He wonders, with a sick, nauseating clarity, how often that was the case.

Arthur turns back to his men.

Across the fire, Merlin’s eyes are open.

Arthur’s heart stops.

It’s just for one beat. One, singular beat, where he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t exist. But he does anyway. He does all those things even though he cannot.

In a horrible, childish, insignificant fit, Arthur wishes for his father.

Of course, Uther would be the worst possible addition to this moment. Nearly everyone here would be dead. Perhaps all of them save Arthur. The idea of it getting out that Arthur had been so close to a sorcerer all this time? That he could have been ensconselled at any point during the last several years? No one would trust Arthur. Not his judgement. Not his heart.

Uther’s not here. There’s no one who can make this decision for him.

Merlin is a sorcerer. Merlin is a liar.

Merlin sacrificed himself for the kingdom.

No.

Merlin sacrificed himself for Arthur.

Merlin is awake.

“Good morning, Merlin,” Arthur says.

“Merlin.” He says the word like he’s chewing it. Merlin blinks. “I think that’s me.”

There is another one: Merlin has no memories.

“It is,” he says. “Your name is Merlin.”

Merlin sits up. He shifts a little, Gwaine’s hand falling off his boot. Merlin looks around, taking in the knights and the yawning horizon and the dwindling fire.

“Where are we?” Merlin asks. He doesn’t stand, just looks up curiously at Arthur.

Arthur’s teeth feel fuzzy. His lungs feel heavy. Something about Merlin is wrong. Off.

Did the Callieach do something to him? Beyond the obvious? Something worse?

“We are in the forest.” Arthur says. He fights the urge to stand—it would put them on uneven footing. They are already on uneven footing. Arthur can’t say for certain which of them is lower.

“I can see that,” Merlin replies, eyes crinkling. He’s got a laugh in the corner of his mouth, twisting his lips pleasantly. Arthur’s heart hurts and hurts—he can’t remember the last time he saw Merlin look at him like this. All light and amusement, soft and—and—

Unafraid.

Merlin has just woken up in an unfamiliar wood with unfamiliar people—armed people, at that—with no memories. And he looks almost as unafraid as Arthur has ever seen him.

How terrified he must have been, Arthur thinks. Of Camelot. Of me.

“You look sad,” Merlin says. His brows flicker together, tightly.

“I suppose I am,” Arthur admits. Merlin frowns. He looks around, clever eyes taking in the whole of the camp.

“You have to know what’s going on to be sad,” he says.

Arthur inclines his head. “I suppose so.”

“Well, then I’m glad you know who we are instead of me!” Merlin smiles brightly. His eyes crinkle again. In the depth of the blue, Arthur sees compassion. Compassion that Merlin couldn’t shake even after he was stripped of all that he is.

Arthur loves him fiercely in this moment. He loves him as much as he has ever loved anyone, friend or family or countryman. He loves Merlin, and he has lost him, and there is only so much pain he can withstand before he must close his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to center the mismatched bones inside of him.

A hand lands on his shoulders. Arthur’s eyes snap open, fear shooting through his throat, but it’s only Merlin, comforting him.

“You’re so quiet.”

Merlin shrugs. “Suppose I am. Is that a surprise?”

Arthur nods. “I always found you quite loud.”

Merlin cocks his head. Arthur can practically see the gears turning in his mind.

He realizes with a start that this is who Merlin truly is.

Sure, he has no memories, but it’s clear he knows some things—like he clearly knows fire is bad and what a tree is. This is Merlin at his purest form. No lies, no secrets, no fear.

Arthur is suddenly gripped with terror.

He does not want to ruin this for his friend.

“Merlin,” he says, using the kindest voice he has, the one he reserves for audiences with children and spooked animals. “Would you take a walk with me?”

Merlin considers him. His eyes stay light, his expression relaxed. He shrugs. “Alright.”

Merlin offers him a hand.

Arthur tries very, very hard to not tear up when he takes it.

They walk into the woods. Arthur doesn’t want to be far away enough to risk frightening his men, nor missing something while he’s on watch. But for this next thing… Well, he needs a bit of privacy.

As they walk, Arthur watches Merlin.

He moves with a remarkable grace. It’s almost mesmerizing, the way Merlin’s hands move through the air as if it’s water that he’s feeling. His eyes are shining as bright as any sky, and he’s smiling as the wind blows, tilting his head as if he’s listening.

Arthur knows now that he never really knew Merlin. And though the grief of that strikes him as hot as any wound, it is slow like a fever, like infection—it will set in later. For now, he just presses a hand to the injury and keeps walking.

“How do you feel?”

Merlin gives his question consideration. “Wonderful.”

That stings, too.

“You are not afraid?” He can’t help but ask.

Merlin pauses, turning to him. Again, there is a lack of wariness in his eyes that makes Arthur winded. He’s never, not once, seen Merlin look at him like this.

He did not even know that Merlin was wary of him. Not until he suddenly wasn’t.

“It’s the strangest thing,” Merlin murmurs, eyes flickering kindly across Arthur’s face. “My whole being trusts you. It’s… It’s like how I know how to breathe.”

Arthur surges forward without thought.

As he grips Merlin in the tightest hug he has ever offered another person, he thinks he could weep. He really, truly thinks he could cry for everything he’s lost, for everything he’s destroyed—and for the horrible, selfish, terrible, honest relief that he feels right now.

When he pulls back, Merlin’s eyes are wet, too, though, surprise on his face, and Arthur wonders a little bit about muscle memory.

“There is so much to discuss,” he admits softly. “There is so much I need to tell you. But, Merlin.” He clasps his hand tightly, severity and love mingling like duty in his throat. “That feeling is true. I vow to you on all of Camelot, you can trust me.”

Merlin’s exhale is soft and pleased, his eyes warm as he squeezes Arthur’s hand back. “Well, yes. I already know that.”

Arthur’s grin flickers in and out. He drops Merlin’s hand, letting out an awkward shuffle as he runs his hands across his face. The vulnerability of the moment is now settling, and it’s leaving behind nothing but embarrassment. He feels the urge to shove Merlin, to scrub his knuckles over his hair, to give him a laundry list of chores—anything to cut the tension now festering. But he fights it, if only for fear of ruining this.

Merlin glances at him, a tilt of his head.

“Can I ask you something?”

Arthur clears his throat. He nods, aiming for regal nonchalance. Merlin is looking at him far too softly for him to think he’s succeeded.

“What is Camelot?” Merlin asks. “And also, what is your name?” His eyes flicker past Arthur’s shoulder before widening. “And also why is that giant angry man running at us?”

When Arthur turns, he only has enough time to shove Merlin back and grab his sword before metal clashes with metal, and he’s fighting for his life.

Chapter Text

Before

Merlin holds Arthur’s cape when he goes to propose to Guinevere.

He’s mending it, technically. He’s mending it, and he’s mending something else, he thinks, even if the stitches and needles and fabric feel like skin and sinew and bone.

Across Camelot, Arthur is asking Guinevere to marry him. To be his Queen. To be his. To take him as hers. He’s asking, and Guinevere is saying yes, because of course Gwen will say yes, who would not say yes? To have Arthur as yours? To be his? Who would say no?

Not to the king. But to the man. To the soul. To the heart.

Merlin slides his needle through the red fabric, thin thread appearing and disappearing with a flick of Merlin’s wrist. Like magic.

Merlin is in Arthur’s chambers. He lit himself a fire and spread out on the thick rug in front of the hearth. He should probably be doing this in his chambers. But Gaius’s eyes are sharp on a good day, and Merlin’s are clouded on a good day, and he doesn’t want to catch anyone’s gaze on today, on a bad day.

On a great day. On the best day for his best friends. On the most loving day for the two most loving people he’s ever met. He’s happy for them. He is, he is, he is, and he knows it. His gut might be churning and his chest might be twisting, but he’s happy, too. He won’t have to fake his smile or his joy when the two announce their union.

And maybe that’s why he’s never told anyone about this other feeling, this denser one, like bread made in Ealdor. Thick and burnt around the edges and sparse, but kneaded by his mother’s hands, split between him and Will, shoulder-to-shoulder.

The joy he feels for Arthur and Gwen is like the bread he gets here from the castle. Light and airy and filling, sweeter and richer than anything else he’s ever tasted. No one in their right mind would choose the harder, dryer loaf.

Merlin packed the picnic basket. He pilfered from the kitchen, but the tarts weren’t good enough, so he made them himself, despite the kitchen staff’s glares. He mixed the ingredients together, dry then wet, and kneaded the dough himself. Like his mother taught him. With love. He used the ingredients that only a king could afford, but he made the dough like a peasant would. He thinks that they will love it.

Merlin picked out Arthur’s outfit. His red jacket, the one that makes him look regal and strong, like a Pendragon. And the blue cape, the one he wears to sneak into the lower town, the one that makes him look young and free, like Arthur.

He helped Gwen braid her hair, a little crown of it that fell into curls. Carefully, he’d chosen bright white and purple flowers from the south side of the castle’s walls, where no one really went, so they grew big and unruly. He plucked them, cleaning them gently with a wet cloth, then wound them into Gwen’s braid.

And now, he’s mending a cape. A red one, this time. A knight’s cape. He meant to do it yesterday, but with the baking and the flower picking, he’d run out of time.

Arthur had been annoyed. Called him lazy. But he was nervous, so Merlin just smiled and nodded and gave him extra sausage at breakfast. He cleared his schedule, did his reports, picked up each pillow and goblet thrown at him throughout the morning, and then he wished him luck.

He holds Arthur’s cape in his hands, gently rubbing the fabric between his fingertips.

There’s a knock at Arthur’s chamber doors. Merlin looks up in surprise, and then looks down at the cape. He hesitates, but a second knock gets him on his feet. Gently, he sets the cape on the chair before moving over.

He cracks open the door, relaxing a little when he sees it is Sir Leon.

“Hello,” he greets, nodding. He slips the door open a little wider. “Arthur isn’t here right now.”

“I know,” Leon says. He smiles. “I’m here to see you.”

Merlin’s brows raise. “I see…”

“Can I come in?” Leon gestures.

Merlin grins. “Taking meetings in Arthur’s chambers is going to get me sacked,” he jokes, but steps aside, waving Leon inside.

Leon laughs. “Just the stocks, I’d bet.” He waits until Merlin closes the door before he drops his smile. Merlin’s own wavers in response.

“Is everything alright, Sir Leon?” Merlin really needs there to not be an emergency today. Arthur is busy and Merlin has a lot of chores.

Sir Leon nods. “Yes. I just…” He stops.

Merlin’s starting to get concerned. “Are you feeling quite well?” He checks the man over for signs of illness. His cheeks are a little flushed, but that’s not uncommon for Leon. He’s got that disposition. “I could be discrete with Gaius-“

“No, no, I’m well.” Leon smiles again. “Thank you, Merlin.”

Merlin nods uncertainly. “Of course… Then…?” He offers a sheepish smile.

Leon sighs. “How are you?”

“Me?” Merlin replies incredulously. “I’m—Well, I’m great, Sir Leon, thank you for asking.”

“I know today is—” He stops himself.

Merlin’s stomach drops.

“Let’s go to the tavern,” Leon suggests.

Merlin’s brows nearly rise to his forehead. “Sir Leon, going to the tavern?”

Leon grins. “I have been to the tavern before, Merlin,” he laughs.

“I’m sure,” Merlin agrees easily.

“I have!”

“I’m sure,” he repeats.

“Shall we go, then?” Leon points his thumb behind himself.

Suspicion rises. “Leon—”

“Now? We can meet Gwaine—”

“Gwaine is always at the tavern—”

“And Percival, likely, if we leave now—”

“I think I am missing something—”

“Merlin, really, we should go—”

Giggling laughter echoes down the hallway. Merlin’s ears perk, and his eyes dart to the half-open door.

“Merlin,” Leon says.

But Merlin’s focus is entirely on the hallway. Where he can hear Gwen and Arthur laughing, bright and happy.

Understanding blooms. Merlin’s eyes squeeze shut for just the amount of time it takes him to blink, harder but not longer, and then he shoots Leon a wide grin. “I fear I will have to take a rain check, Leon. Arthur is going to need me to fetch celebratory wine and cakes and all sorts of other things, the lazy sod.”

Leon’s face crumples with his own understanding. “Merlin.”

“Good of you,” Merlin says meaningfully, before tacking on, “To stop by.”

He gives the first knight a nod, then gestures. With a sigh and a look over his shoulder, Leon leaves the chambers. He turns right instead of left, avoiding the king and his soon-to-be-bride, and Merlin wretches open the door all the way, a beaming grin already on his face.

“You turned him down, right, Gwen?” Merlin teases instantly, and the two young lovers turn to Merlin with shining eyes and pink cheeks.

He’s got work to do. And later, tonight, when the chambers are cleaned and the engagement toasted, Merlin will mend Arthur’s cape.

Now

Merlin leaps out of the way as swords clash together. His new friend had pushed him behind him to keep him safe, and it warms Merlin to him even more than before.

Of course, he’d been warm and toasty like a fire the second he’d spied the other man’s face, so it doesn’t really do much.

The new friend, the blond one, has a fierce look on his face, clearly a warrior. His sword slides across the air, hitting metal, while the angry dark haired man attacks.

“Merlin, watch out!” His friend yells, and Merlin spins around in time to see another man running at him.

For the first time in his whole life, Merlin feels fear.

His hands raise, heart like a hurricane, and then—

Everything is quiet.

The sword is frozen in the air only an arm’s length away from him. The sword-wielder is frozen, too. Merlin cranes his neck, looking up. The trees are still. In the air, a bird has a wing half in motion.

Merlin looks behind him. His new friend and his least favorite person he’s ever met, the angry dark haired man, are also frozen.

Frowning, Merlin reaches out and presses his hand to his friend’s shoulder. He jerks to life, stumbling forward, and loses his balance. Merlin catches him.

He grins at his friend’s bewildered expression. “Good thing you didn’t stab me there.” He jokes.

His friend’s jaw drops. He looks around, his expression slack and pale.

“Merlin,” he breathes. “What did you do?”

Merlin frowns. “I thought you had all the answers.”

His friend scowls. “Why would I be the expert on magic?”

“Magic.” Merlin tries out the word with wonder. “That’s fun.”

“It—it most certainly isn’t,” his friend splutters. “Merlin, did you stop time?”

Merlin shrugs. “Who are these guys anyway?”

His friend just stares at him for a moment. His eyes flicker across his face, completely unreadable, and Merlin’s stomach twists at his expression.

Quietly, he tugs on his ear. “Are you mad at me?”

This seems to startle his friend out of his bad mood, and he shakes his head. “No, no, Merlin,  I’m… I didn’t know you could do this.”

Merlin nods. “Don’t feel bad about it. I still don’t know your name.”

His friend lifts one arm of the man who was trying to kill Merlin. “So they can’t move, but they are not frozen—not like stone. See, I can lift things.” He pauses, looking at Merlin with a frown. “You aren’t a pickpocket, are you Merlin?”

Merlin shrugs. “I think I would be very good at it, if I was,” he says, gesturing to the frozen landscape.

“Don’t pickpocket, Merlin, it is illegal,” he says tiredly, but his eyes are dancing with amusement. Merlin finds his new friend delightful.

“These aren’t our friends, right?” Merlin asks. He also starts poking at the men because Arthur is still doing that, and he thinks that maybe they’re doing it on purpose.

“No,” he replies, pilfering through the men’s pockets. “Bandits, I think. I don’t recognize them.” He lifts a coin, scowling at it, and depositing it in his own pocket.

Merlin gasps. “Hey, that’s pickpocketing!”

“It’s evidence,” his friend dismisses.

“Evidence, schmevidence, that’s illegal.” For good measure, Merlin sticks his tongue out.

His friend rolls his eyes. “Report me to the prince, then,” he says wryly.

Merlin tilts his head. “I will,” he says.

“Good.”

“I mean it.”

“Go on.”

“Soon as I figure out which kingdom we’re in and who the king is and who you are, I’m going to report you for pickpocketing.”

“Looking forward to it.” He says distractedly before shooting Merlin another indecipherable look. “Merlin, you stopped time.”

“I bet you’re going to tell me that’s illegal, too,” Merlin jokes. He’s starting to feel a bit uneasy. He just wanted to know what was going on. He’s also a little afraid that the world is going to remain frozen forever because he actually has no clue how this has happened.

His friend turns back to his investigation, not replying. He carefully disarms both of them. “Arthur,” he says over his shoulder.

Merlin tilts his head. “What is an Arthur?”

“Me,” he says. “My name. Arthur. Arthur Pendragon.”

Merlin looks at him. His hair is gold and his eyes are skylit and his name is Arthur Pendragon.

“Well, Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin says, and for some reason, that makes his friend pull up straight and tall. “What do we do about this?”

Arthur stops poking the man’s face. He turns to Merlin, and this time, Merlin can read his expression perfectly clear.

“That depends.” With a bright, child-like delight, Arthur grins. “What else can you do?”

***

When Merlin and Arthur return to camp, the world is back up. Arthur has tied the bandits up and Merlin, with Arthur’s nod of encouragement, thought wake up wake up wake up wake up a bunch of times, really fast, until the world started turning again.

“Magic is weird,” Merlin says, stomping beside Arthur.

Arthur gives him a strange look, and Merlin is starting to wonder if his friend thinks Merlin is silly for saying that.

“Sorry, I’m sure magic is much more commonplace for—Woah! Arthur, should I freeze time again?”

The man Merlin had woken up next to has a blade to his literal best friend’s throat, and Merlin is overwhelmed.

“Gwaine, stand down.” Arthur snaps. “Merlin is clearly fine.”

The man—Gwaine, Merlin surmises—cuts his eyes sharply to Merlin. “That true?”

“You have a very intense energy,” Merlin tells him.

That seems to do the trick, because this Gwaine character relaxes, and he sheathes his knife. He gives Merlin another once over, Arthur another glare, and then steps away.

Merlin looks between the other men and Arthur, incredulously.

“My friend,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “You have got to get a more relaxing life.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. He gestures forward, and so Merlin keeps walking into camp, though he keeps a watchful eye on all these men. So far, Merlin thinks that he and Arthur might be the only people in the world who doesn’t pull blades first and ask questions second.

“Uh,” Merlin says, looking around. Everyone is so on edge. “You all actually have really bad energy.”

“Sorry,” says the tallest man Merlin has ever met.

Merlin shrugs. “That’s okay. Just a little feedback from a stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger,” Arthur says. Merlin glances at him with surprise.

“Oh.” Merlin looks back to the others. He squints. Then, leaning in closer to Arthur, he says, “I’ve never met them before.”

Arthur rolls his eyes again. “You don’t think you’ve met anyone before, but obviously that isn’t true.”

Merlin puts two and two together. “Magic?”

“Magic,” Arthur agrees with a sigh. Then, as if he is very put upon, he plops an arm over Merlin’s shoulder and drags him further into camp. “Merlin, come meet your friends.”

Tentatively, Merlin lets himself get pulled in. His gut trusts Arthur, that much he knows. And he’s not scared of these other people, he just… Well, he doesn’t really feel anything about them. He only really felt anything about Arthur.

But still, magic has clearly taken his memories, and Arthur is clearly his very best friend, so he decides, what the hell, go with the flow.

“Merlin, you’ve met Gwaine. Unpleasant, but… No, actually, just unpleasant.”

Gwaine glowers, but his expression softens considerably when he locks eyes with Merlin. For a moment, there is a look of pure hope on his face, but when Merlin just smiles and waves, his expression falls. Merlin regrets something that he can’t explain.

“This is Elyan, Leon, Percival, and Lancelot.”

Merlin repeats their names in his head.

“Very good to meet you,” he offers politely.

There’s a tenderness at the way they look at him that makes him a bit uncomfortable. But Merlin pushes it aside, resting easy in the fact that these are Arthur’s people.

“It’s very good to see you up and doing well, Merlin,” says the tall redheaded man. Merlin blinks before remembering Leon.

“Thanks,” he says, smiling.

Leon’s smile falters a little, looking a bit hurt, and Merlin feels that guilt again.

“I think I might be missing something,” Merlin says, looking between their expressions.

“Let’s sit—” Elyan is saying, but Arthur holds up a hand.

“There are bandits in this wood,” he says. “We should continue on towards Camelot.”

“Right! What is Camelot again?” Merlin asks.

“Camelot is the kingdom we serve,” Lancelot says. He’s got a very kind voice. Merlin looks at them, thinking hard. The swords… Arthur’s quick thinking… the red capes…

“Are we knights?” Merlin asks brightly, hands clapping together. “Oh, I’m a knight injured protecting the realm! That’s so great—Oh, hey! You—Leon, right?” Leon nods. “Do you know the prince? I need to report this guy to him.” Merlin leans in with a fake whisper. “He’s a thief.”

Leon’s jaw drops.

No one says anything.

Merlin chuckles a little awkwardly. No one even joins in out of pity.

“It… It’s just a joke,” he explains. He looks at their faces. “Jeez, okay, knights don’t joke.”

“You’re not a knight, Merlin,” Arthur says. “And here’s something you should know—I’m the Regent Prince of Camelot.”

Merlin takes one look at his friend’s proud, serious face, and he bursts into laughter.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

Chapter Text

Before

Arthur holds the red handkerchief between his fingers, and his chest whirls with emotion.

It feels like a dust storm inside of his ribs. He’s a clever man, he knows. He might not like to study or read reports or think about arithmetic, but he’s been trained to think since birth. So he can’t help but surmise, quickly and accurately, the meaning behind this gesture.

Before him, Merlin is wringing his hands nervously. He only does it twice before he shoves his hands behind his back, straightening his spine a little, but Arthur knows he’s anxious. Embarrassed. The gesture hangs between them, so far unaccepted and unexplained.

The problem is, Arthur is embarrassed, too. And he’s never been good at pushing that down. So even though he feels surprise and joy and contentment and fear and affection, he can’t help but focus entirely on the embarrassment.

“Merlin, you girl’s skirt,” he mocks, not looking up in case his eyes betray just how touched he truly is. “Did you give the prince of Camelot a hand-me-down for his birthday?”

It’s not nice. Merlin doesn’t have much—Arthur pays him handsomely, of course, but even the best wages for a servant are still servant’s wages. And he’s sure he spends most of his money on Gaius or his mother or flowers or whatever else a girl like Merlin—

He stops himself. He doesn’t need to be mean in his mind, too.

Merlin’s ears are bright red. He works his jaw, and Arthur can see he’s trying to decide how to move forward. Arthur has always envied that Merlin has this skill. The man puts his foot in his mouth at least twice a day, sure, but when it matters, Merlin is always able to choose how to respond. He’s not controlled by emotion the way Arthur is.

“My mother made it,” Merlin eventually says. “I thought you would like it.”

Heat flames inside of Arthur’s chest. The gift, already precious, has become one-of-a-kind.

A mother sewed this for her child. Not Arthur’s mother, not Arthur himself—but a mother, and a child. On a day like today…

Arthur feels like he might burn alive from the feeling in his chest.

This is the most meaningful thing I have ever been given, he thinks.

This is more than I deserve, he thinks.

You are a better friend than I deserve, he knows.

“I have scarves,” Arthur says instead, and he shoves the gift at Merlin, who takes it seemingly out of instinct. He’s got a look on his face, that one Arthur hates. Pursed lips, tall brows, wet eyes—half-wounded and half-furious, a look that Merlin pulls out and makes Arthur’s knees tremble.

He’s got dinner with his father soon. His birthday celebration. The anniversary of his mother’s death. Arthur ignores Merlin’s expression, ignores that part of him is glad that he’s angry and hurt just like Arthur is, and the whole way down the castle he thinks, it should have been me, it should have been me, it should have been me.

Later that night, when Arthur returns, his rooms are cleaned. The fire is tall and bright, the kind that takes Merlin ages to stoke. There’s a still-steaming tub waiting for him to bathe, a goblet of warmed wine and his favorite apple tart on the table. And, best of all, worst of all, Merlin is gone.

Arthur knows he should feel guilty, and he does. But he also feels relief. He can’t… He can’t keep taking things out on Merlin. But he can’t apologize to him either. He can’t stop himself. So it’s best if Merlin is just gone. Then Arthur doesn’t have the option to hurt him.

When he crawls into bed, warm from hot stones and smelling fresh from soap, Arthur finds the red handkerchief. It had blended in a bit to the bedspread. He picks it up again, and his heart stutters.

In the corner, in thin gold lines, Arthur’s initials are threaded in. Arthur knows instantly that this is Merlin’s handiwork. It’s the precise needlework he’s mastered working for Gaius, the one that threads through all of his mended items. Beneath it, so faint Arthur has to pull a candle closer to be sure, the fabric is slightly discolored in the shape of an M.

Merlin had pulled the thread out of his own beloved gift to re-work it for Arthur. To pull thread so thin would have taken ages. The gold thread very well may be the most expensive thing the servant owned.

Arthur falls asleep with the handkerchief wrapped around his fist. When Merlin wakes him up in the morning, he’s got an extra sausage.

Arthur carefully puts the handkerchief in his desk drawer and offers Merlin half his bread.

By noon, all is forgotten, all is forgiven, and Arthur knows that he’s not any better of a man for it.

Now

Arthur’s men pack up camp quickly. Merlin cheerfully offers to help, but he clearly has no idea what he’s doing. It sends a panic through Arthur. Where does training live in memory? If he doesn't know how to put out a fire, what else does he not know how to do? If Merlin can’t ride, they’ll be much slower to get back to Camelot. And his kingdom needs him—the aftermath of the Dorocha must be dealt with, and quickly. His uncle is there in his steed, but even Arthur can admit Agravaine will not be as magnanimous to the suffering of the lower townspeople as Arthur himself would.

But thankfully, it seems like knowledge is one thing and muscle memory is the other. Merlin’s magic had certainly proved that to him earlier.

“Woah!” Merlin exclaims, shooting Arthur a brilliant grin. “I’m really good at riding a horse.”

Arthur can’t help himself—he snorts. “If by really good, you mean barely passable.” It’s a gentle tease, no heat in it or anything. Before—well, before all of this, before that blasted day where Merlin got hit by the curse, it wouldn’t have even phased him. He might have not even hit back, it was such a light ribbing.

But now, Merlin shoots him a soft, confused look, and guilt eats away at him.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I was just joking.”

Merlin nods, and some of the confusion ebbs away. “Guess I’m not very funny,” he says after a beat, a tentative olive branch.

Arthur snatches at it. “You said it, not me.” He grins, and, slowly, Merlin grins back.

“Sire,” Leon says, and his eyes cut nervously between Merlin and Arthur.

Merlin snaps his fingers. “It’s very strange that my best friend is the king,” he says brightly.

Arthur blusters a little, his cheeks heating up. “Merlin!”

“What?” He asks, eyes wide and innocent, and Arthur can’t look at the man in the face and say we aren’t best friends because then that downtrodden, lost look will return, and Arthur hates that more than he hates this embarrassment, so he just pushes it down as far as he can.

“Go ride with Lancelot,” he grumbles. “I need to talk to Leon and you—you need to socialize with others.”

Merlin scoffs good naturedly, but he shoots Leon a gummy smile before he expertly maneuvers his horse between Lance and Percival, instantly introducing himself again.

“He’s different,” Arthur says.

Leon nods. His First Knight’s face is drawn, considering, and Arthur’s stomach turns. That look always precedes something Arthur very much does not want to hear.

“Speak your mind, Leon,” he says, hating himself for it.

“Sire, the magic.”

Leon says nothing else.

Arthur knows there’s nothing else to say really.

The sun is warm. Merlin is laughing, head thrown back, and Arthur has laughed often with Merlin, but he’s never seen him quite like this. It is like his muscles are loose, his mind clear. Arthur used to think that it was because of the tiredness or the danger of the situation or even about himself, that perhaps he was just always destined to be one half-step off from those closest to him. But this Merlin knows he's the king. He knows that bandits attack this wood. And he's still... Free. 

“He doesn’t know,” Arthur murmurs, gut sinking like stones to the riverbed.

“Sire?”

“Merlin,” Arthur explains, gesturing with the reigns in his hands. “Merlin doesn’t know that magic is illegal. He doesn’t… Understand. The danger he’s in.”

Leon looks onto the trio gravely. “We will have to tell him.”

Arthur’s heart aches. “His memories, Leon. They burdened him. They—Look at him.” Merlin has captured a butterfly. Or, more accurately, a butterfly has captured Merlin. It perches on his head, and he laughs bright and pleasant and joyful. It makes Arthur sick to his stomach.

“I have always considered Merlin someone I am duty bound to protect,” Leon says. Leon’s face is drawn, his brows pushed together.

“As have I.”

He turns to Arthur. “But you say… He stopped time?” His words lift up at the end, like he is questioning that he heard right.

Arthur feels sick about that, too.

“It was indescribable, Leon,” Arthur admits softly. “It was… The air itself was still. Blood frozen in bodies, but no less alive.”

"An accident?"

"Instinct, more like," Arthur admits. "We were in danger."

“He could take over kingdoms,” Leon breathes out.

Ahead of them, Merlin is trying to pat his head and rub his stomach while the other knights laugh at him gutturally.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks, nose scrunching.

“If he could do that without even thinking,” Leon says, voice trailing off.

Arthur sobers. “Then what might he do on purpose?”

Leon’s quiet. Arthur loses himself in his thought,

If Merlin could stop time, then what else has he done right under Arthur’s nose? That first meeting, he thinks. Arthur knew there was no way a peasant could defeat Arthur in one-on-one fight on his first day in Camelot. What a lousy cheat! And dice, too, Arthur is certain. He’s going to be mad about that later.

The snakes on that crooked knight’s enchanted shield… Did Merlin know the truth because of his magic? The story he concocted about knocking Arthur over with a plank of wood! Arthur knew that one was a load of horse manure.

He thinks of branches falling, of impossible enemies defeated, of death and fear and betrayal and Merlin, standing beside him throughout all of it.

He thinks about the Cailleach. The fear on her face. The strength on Merlin’s. He is not just a garden mage. He is powerful. Arthur knows that much.

And now, all that power, power that made a being with dominion over the veil between life and death afraid, was in a man with no memories.

“Merlin would never hurt us," Arthur finds himself saying, and, more surprisingly, meaning it. "He would never use magic to cause us harm."

Leon nods. "The Merlin who we all have grown to care for, the Merlin we know, would never."

"So we are in agreement."

Leon's face is as hard as his position as First Knight. "No, sire, I think we are not."

Arthur's eyes fall closed for just a moment, squeezing them hard enough that the black is dispersed with little silver streaks. When he opens them again, he prays they stay dry.

"A man's loyalties are built out of duty or calling or love," Leon says, and Arthur can't help but hold still, all at once the small squire that Leon used to teach before he became of age. "And all of those are built out of experiences, sire. Out of more than just blind instinct."

Arthur hears what Leon isn't saying. What he is asking without words.

And, to his great dismay, Arthur has no answer.

Can a man with no memories have loyalty?

Lancelot had asked, what is life if not memories?

Now, for better or for worse, it looks like Arthur is going to find out.

***

“There’s a clearing up ahead that looks very soft!” Merlin shouts from where he’s riding his horse. He turns nearly all the way around, searching for Arthur’s gaze. When he finds it, he beams.

The last several hours of riding has made Arthur... Well, Merlin would have said he is cranky. His bum is sore and his mood is sour and he's thinking, what is life if not memories over and over again, so now he kind of wants to give Lancelot the cold shoulder even though he didn't do anything wrong.

Arthur’s skin itches. He wants to pick a fight. Instead, he nods tersely. “Very well.”

“How do you know?” Elyan asks Merlin, and Arthur strains to hear.

“I don’t know,” Merlin shrugs. “I just know things. Like, I know that the river is over there, and there’s a family of deer over there, and there’s a dead body over there, and there’s a berry bush over there—”

“Merlin, what did you just say?” Lancelot interrupts.

Everyone has halted their horses. Merlin’s continues on a few feet before he falters, turning with a frown. “A berry bush,” he says, pointing. “There.”

No one says anything for a lingering moment. 

Merlin's frown grows deeper. "It's red berries, I think. Are those poisonous or something?"

“You can tell there is a dead body?” Arthur asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. He breathes deeply through his nose in a valiant effort to stay calm.

“Yes,” he says slowly. He looks around. “None of you can tell?”

“Uh, no, mate,” Gwaine replies. Even the unflappable Gwaine seems, well, flapped. He's trying to keep his expression neutral, but Arthur knows his knight well enough to know he's distraught.

Merlin, however, does not know Gwaine, nor any of them, well enough to know how unsettling this news is. He just glances over at where he had pointed. “But it’s… So… There? Your senses must be very dull.”

“Great lesson,” Arthur snaps. “It’s there. Great magical advice, Merlin, really.”

Merlin turns that wounded look to him. “Well, how am I supposed to know the difference? What’s magic and what’s, I don’t know, air?” He fans Gwaine very aggressively with his hands. “Can you feel that, huh, Gwaine?”

Gwaine sighs. “Yes, I can.”

“Well then.” Merlin folds his arms across his chest like a petulant child. Arthur opens his mouth to mock him for it before realizing he’s done the exact same thing.

“Sire, perhaps it was the bandits you… Fought… earlier,” Elyan’s eyes flicker to Merlin, undoubtedly considering the ‘fight’ that occurred.

“Nearly a full day’s travel away?” Arthur frowns. To travel at that speed would be possible, but unlikely. “Perhaps…”

Merlin tilts his head. Arthur glances at him before inhaling sharply.

Against his will, fear shoots through Arthur like cold water poured over his face.

Merlin’s eyes are glowing gold.

Arthur can hear the whistling of air sucking in, the low curses of surprise, and even the thunks of hands falling onto sword hilts—but Arthur can’t look away. He can’t tear his eyes away from the gold evidence marring his manservant’s face.

Arthur knew. Arthur knew, Arthur knew—the man defeated an undefeatable magic entity. He stopped time.

But Arthur hadn’t seen.

Arthur… He hadn’t known the way he knows now.

He looks away, green. His stomach rolls.

When he checks on his men, he sees them equally queasy. The only one who looks entirely unaffected is Lancelot. Arthur feels pain for that, too.

“That doesn’t look right,” Merlin says.

Arthur forces himself to focus. You are Prince Arthur Pendragon, he thinks to himself. You must pay attention. You must focus. “What do you mean?”

“There’s… I don’t know. It feels wrong. It feels… Twisted.” Merlin cocks his head. His eyes are still gold, gold, gold—“Does anyone know who Emrys is?”

Fear shoots through him. He locks eyes with Lancelot before shaking his head very small. He's not quite ready to deal with that yet.

“Or what it is? What it means? It? I don’t know. What is Emrys?” Merlin shakes his own head and the gold disperses. He cocks his head.

Lancelot swallows hard. Arthur shoots him a hard scowl, trying to tell him to be quiet. He needs to think. Doesn’t anyone understand that Arthur needs to think?

“Why, Merlin?” Gwaine asks. “Why do you ask?”

Merlin looks at Gwaine, a furrow between his brow. “Because,” he says slowly. “That’s what’s carved into the dead man’s chest.”

Chapter Text

Merlin holds two identical red shirts, squinting at them.

“You’re sure I used to care which one you wore?” He asks for the third time.

Across the room, shirtless and furious, Arthur groans. “Yes, Merlin, you did!”

Merlin looks at the shirts again. One is slightly more frayed around the throat. The other is longer by perhaps a quarter of an inch.

His eyes dart back to Arthur. “You’re sure?”

“Oh, bugger it.” Arthur storms over, snatching one shirt, and shoves it over his head. He looks ridiculous with his blond hair sticking up and a scowl on his face, but he’s dressed, at least.

Merlin frowns. “That one isn’t as nice as this one.”

Arthur glowers. “I’m going to kill you.”

Merlin sticks his tongue out. For some reason, this is what allows Arthur to soften.

Merlin has been at Camelot’s castle for twelve days now, and he’s not entirely sure that he believes everyone when they say he’s Arthur’s servant.

He’s got no memories, that’s true, but Merlin’s got good instincts. He trusts Gaius pretty immediately, he feels a strange sense of wariness about Agravaine, and remarkable anger and pity when he lands eyes on the King for the first time. He knew where the kitchen was and which horses were likely to kick. What he doesn’t know is anything about serving Arthur. Even the thought, the title, Arthur’s manservant, feels… Off. Wrong.

But everyone says it’s true, including Arthur, so who is he to suggest otherwise?

“Now, I have to go to counsel, and you have to stay back here and clean—”

“I don’t want to do that—”

“And what are you not going to do?” Arthur folds his arms across his chest. He lifts a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, looking so… so…

Pratty.

“I already told you I won’t do magic.” He whispers the last word, but Arthur still cries his name in a furious way. “I didn’t say it that loud!”

“Any amount of loud is too loud!”

“You asked me a direct question!”

Arthur buries his face in his hands. “How you hid this from me for years, I will never know.”

Merlin hums thoughtfully at that. He leans back, half-sitting on Arthur’s desk, and crosses his arms. “Why do you think I did that anyway?”

Arthur splutters for a moment. “Lie to me? For years? Your prince and—” he stops, then adds, “Employer.”

Merlin thinks he wasn’t going to say employer. He squints, considering the other man. “Yes. Why do you think I did that?”

Arthur freezes. His eyes stay locked on Merlin’s. They’re both trying to puzzle each other out. Merlin wonders if they are more or less successful than they used to be at this, before he lost all his memories.

“Merlin, I really don’t have time for this. I need to see my father before counsel, and then there’s tonight.”

Merlin snaps his fingers, jumping up. “That’s right! It’s your birthday!”

Arthur furrows his brows. “Birthday. What an odd thing to say.”

“Is it?” He says it again. “Birthday. Birthday. Day of birth. It sounds right to me.”

Arthur shakes his head. “The anniversary of my birth is an important occasion. There will be a feast and entertainment. I will need you to be on your best behavior.”

“Excuse me, I’m not a child.”

“No, you’re worse.” Arthur grabs his sword belt, sliding it on, before giving Merlin another firm look. “Stay out of the way, and, for god’s sake, keep your head down.”

He leaves his chambers, and Merlin has no recourse except to stick his tongue out at Arthur’s back again.

This sort of baby-handling has been commonplace since Merlin woke up. The prince positively frets over him. It’s infuriating and infantilizing, and Merlin can’t even really argue against it because he doesn’t have any memories of him taking care of himself.

“Keep your head down,” he mutters to himself as he turns to make Arthur’s bed. Instantly, his magic flares out and the sheets slide up by themselves. He checks over his shoulder, but thankfully the door is already latched shut.

It’s not like Merlin is trying to do magic. He can’t help it! It’s like Arthur is telling him not to breathe. Not to sneeze! The whole thing really is out of his control.

From what he’s gathered, that’s incredibly unusual. The knights were all varying levels of impressed, which felt good, and afraid, which felt insulting. His magic responds to his thoughts, to his environment, to his needs. And, frustratingly, Arthur’s needs. That became apparent when, while riding back to Camelot, Merlin’s magic launched out to grab Arthur before he stumbled on a root. Merlin hadn’t really cared much if his friend had stumbled! But apparently, his magic had thoughts.

Gaius has been fairly tight-lipped himself, though from what Merlin gathers, he’s the only one who knew about Merlin’s magic before his little showdown the other week. Though Lancelot had told him that Gaius was his mentor, like a father to him, Merlin finds the older man hard to read. He’s suspicious in a way that makes Merlin suspicious, too.

Merlin has been trying to take everything in stride. He thinks he must inherently be a go-with-the-flow kind of guy because so far, almost everything they’ve thrown at him has felt reasonable enough. Sacrificed all of his memories to close some door to the afterlife? Alright. He’s got magic in a kingdom where that’s outlawed by penalty of death? Fine. But that he’s got a chore list the size of his arm and he’s supposed to do that without magic? No way.

Halfway through the chore list, Merlin stumbles across Gwaine in the hallway.

“Merlin!” He says brightly, the way he does every time they stumble across each other.

Merlin beams. He adores Gwaine. “Hello, Sir Knight!”

Gwaine flusters, cheeks reddening just a little. He also does this every time they stumble across each other. “I told you, Merls, you can just call me Gwaine.”

“No, no,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “Arthur was very clear—can’t be drawing attention to myself. And a servant calling a knight by name?” He clicked his tongue.

Gwaine smirks. “But the prince, on the other hand?”

Merlin realizes his misstep. He waves a hand. “Well, he’s a clotpole. Who would care?”

Gwaine laughs broadly. Merlin grins.

“Well, I have about one million things to do before the Prince’s party, so I really need to go.” Merlin lifts the laundry basket he’s holding as evidence. “See you around, Gwaine!”

Gwaine cheers at the use of his first name as Merlin darts away. He throws a grin over his shoulder.

He sees Elyan and Percival when he goes to collect Arthur’s cape from the mender. Both men throw him a kind smile and wave, but neither come over to talk to him. Merlin swallows his sigh. He knows now that magic is something that many are uncomfortable with. He knows all the knights that were there when he exposed himself are risking a great deal. Still, it hurts to be told that these are his closest friends and they cannot find it within themselves to not care. Merlin wonders why Lancelot, Gwaine, and Arthur don’t care about his magic when the other three knights are clearly struggling with it.

The thought puts him in a bit of a dour mood for the rest of the day. It’s made worse when he realizes that the party is also technically work.

Merlin does the best he can, but he’s sweating and tired by the time Arthur’s dragging him down the palace halls to the grand room. There’s an anniversary feast on Arthur’s behalf, and Merlin is so tired, he’s not even really looking forward to it.

“Stand there, and try not to spill anything on me,” Arthur says as he grits his teeth into a smile.

Merlin exhales hard with a huff. “I don’t even get to sit?” He complains.

Arthur shoots him a look—Merlin is starting to name them so that he can understand his prince better. This one, he’s calling his Yes, I’m very serious look.

“My father is coming to tonight’s feast,” Arthur says. Merlin’s brows raise at that. The old king has apparently been sick since his ward slash hidden daughter – and yes, Merlin would really like some of the details on that story – betrayed him. Merlin hasn’t had a chance to meet the man, but no fewer than four knights and three maids came to warn Merlin to avoid the man. Merlin doesn’t even know the names of two of the maids, but they told him he was clumsy!

Which, well, may be true. Arthur is telling him to not spill.

“I will be saving complaints until tomorrow, as a gesture of good will on your birthday,” Merlin offers.

Arthur scoffs out a laugh, but his eyes soften. “Very generous of you.”

“Yes, that is what I am known for.”

“I’m sure.”

“I bet you are.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I—”

“Arthur?” Merlin’s head snaps up at the new voice—instinctively, he scowls.

Something about Arthur’s uncle just really rubs him the wrong way. He does not like the man.

Without memories, Merlin’s realized he doesn’t have a lot. Just his magic, his wits, and his gut. And none of those things care for Agravaine de Bois.

“Uncle!” Arthur beams at the man, leading him to his seat. The two begin talking, and Merlin reluctantly and a bit petulantly follows behind. He glances over at Agravaine’s servant and mimics him, grabbing a jug of wine and clearing his expression.

The King comes in shortly after, everyone rising to greet him. He moves with a slow, almost jagged sort of movement, like he needs a cane to successfully get across. Merlin wonders again about this injury that he is plagued with, wonders if there’s anything he can do to alleviate the King’s suffering. If only for the look on Arthur’s face as he takes in his father.

The joy on Arthur’s face, the tenderness there, is the most beautiful thing that Merlin has ever seen. Of course, he knows he’s limited in experiences right now, but it makes his heart swell to see.

The rest of the activities prove to be quite enjoyable. Arthur finds himself tied to a moving board with an apple in his mouth, knives being expertly chucked at him, and Merlin laughs and laughs. He wishes he had a way to immortalize the moment—he finds his hands reaching towards his pocket, grasping at nothing, and he frowns at himself. A headache appears almost instantly, digging into him behind his right eye, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to move past the pain the best that he can.

Still, the headache doesn’t leave, so when a very drunk Arthur decides he wants to spend the rest of the evening with his father, Merlin doesn’t bother coaxing him into bed to sleep off that hangover he’s nursing. Instead, he just reminds him to pull up his pants and then excuses himself.

He lets himself back into Gaius’s chambers. It’s hard still to think of it has his.

“Hullo,” he says, wincing a bit at the noise Gaius’s mortar and pestle makes as he scrapes something into a paste.

“Merlin—What’s wrong?” He moves fast for an old man. Merlin barely has time to lift his hands before he’s onto him.

“Just a bit of a headache, is all.”

“What were you doing?” Gaius frowns at him, harshly pulling Merlin’s eyebrow up with his finger as he peers into Merlin’s eye.

“Nothing!” Merlin defends himself. “I had a weird thought, is all, I wanted to—It’s strange, it’s like an invention. Maybe this is how things are invented! I thought I wished I could capture an image, like a painting, only it was a small little square full of magic—it’s a silly thought, but also, apparently, a painful one.”

If anything, this makes Gaius angrier. “You are not being cautious.”

“Not being cautious with thinking?” Merlin throws his hands up and steps back, taking his face with him. Gaius’s hands hover in the air for a moment.

“You gave up the right to your memories. Anything that prods at them could be dangerous. It was already dangerous before—”

“Before what?” Merlin furrows his brow.

Gaius glares at him. “Just be more cautious, please.”

“How? All I did was the job you said I have!” He points a finger. “I didn’t even get any cake.”

“You should be recovering,” Gaius says, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. “You went through a great ordeal. Who knows what the side effects of your sacrifice will be? You must be—”

“Careful.” Merlin interrupts. He sits down on the bench, rubbing at his temples. “Why don’t you tell the prince to lay off the chore list, then?”

“Perhaps I will.” Gaius says.

Merlin snorts. He’d like to see that.

Gaius sighs heavily and sits beside him. He hands him a small tincture. Merlin lifts it in question.

“For your headache,” he says.

Merlin nods, and, hesitating only slightly at the disgusting smell, downs it.

He shivers from the taste, sticking his tongue out as he shakes his head. “Gross.”

“It’ll help,” Gaius says.

Merlin nods. He keeps nodding when Gaius’s gaze lingers on him longer than he expected.

“Merlin,” Gaius starts, and Merlin braces himself for a lecture. “I know that I am a stranger to you… But I hope you know that everything I do is in your best interest.”

Merlin swallows roughly. “I do.” He allows. But… “You don’t trust me.”

Gaius’s shoulders fall. “No. I suppose I do not.”

It hurts more than Merlin expected. He knew this already, of course… But he hadn’t wanted it to be true.

“I am an old man, and you, well, you… are new. You have always been new. Your power, your kindness, your principles, they make you something of a breath of fresh air in Camelot.”

Merlin’s eyes flicker across the man’s face. “Those sound like good things, Gaius.”

“Oh, they are,” he assures him. “But they are also frightening. Since the day I met you, my boy, I have only wanted you to be safe. But now, it seems I cannot stop losing you.” To Merlin’s horror, Gaius’s eyes fill with tears.

Merlin loses any amount of suspicion or bitterness towards him, and he surges forward, grabbing his hands in his own.

“Gaius, I’m right here.” He promises.

Gaius shakes his head. “You are, my boy, but you are also not.”

Merlin feels very young. “Am I not me without my memories?”

“You are perhaps too you.” Gaius says this with a shaky smile. He says this like he’s admitting something awful. “I see you now, and I see how much I lost you—even before.”

“Before?” Merlin repeats. “Gaius, I’m sorry, but I’m… I don’t know what you mean.”

Gaius nods. He lifts his chin, blinking rapidly. He lifts himself bit by bit like he is trying to be brave. “There are things you don’t know. There are things I don’t know. And I… Merlin, I do not know the difference between honesty and burdening right now. None of us do.” Gaius squeezes Merlin’s hand in his own. “But you are your own man. I see now that you always have been.”

Merlin tilts his head. “It sounds like you are saying there are secrets to be shared with me.”

Gaius tilts his head. “Secrets you once shared with me, entrusted with me to keep safe. I don’t know if the man who woke up here a few months ago would thank me for burdening your shoulders now with them.”

Merlin searches Gaius’s face. There is truth there. He can see it. His magic can feel it.

He doesn’t know what Gaius is hinting at, but it frightens him. What secrets could Merlin have besides simple magic that makes Gaius so afraid to tell him? What does Merlin not know about himself that brings a grown man to tears?

He doesn’t know.

But he needs to find out.

Merlin opens his mouth, ready to demand the truth, and then the castle bells ring louder than they ever have.

Noise pours in from the windows, from the halls, from the streets—Merlin and Gaius leap up. But it’s too late. Even as the warning bells ring over and over again in Merlin’s ears, by the time he makes it to Arthur’s side, there’s nothing to be done.

A wound like that… It is beyond healing.

The King is dead.

Chapter Text

Arthur’s knees hurt.

It’s ridiculous to focus on right now. It’s disgusting to even think about. But he’s sitting here, at his father’s deathbed, and he keeps thinking, my knees really hurt.

He fell on them twice during the sword fight. If it can even be called a sword fight. He fell on them, hard, no practice or skill though he’s spent decades training how to fall just right. He was drugged. He knows he was drugged. It still felt like falling, though.

He knows there are bruises there. Can feel it. The burst vessels, the beaten muscles. He knows that when he eventually strips off his pants, peeling away the sticky fabric, he’ll see dried blood and black bruises.

His knees hurt.

Before him, laying so still it’s terrifying, his father is dying.

Gaius’s words hit him like smoke. He tries to grab them, needing to feel them in his fingers, needing to understand—but he can’t seem to focus long enough to actually hear Gaius. It is both alleviating and excruciating all at once.

A hand places on his knee; the sting is instant, and Arthur shocks back into his body like a bolt of lightning.

“Huh?”

Kneeling before him, Merlin frowns. Arthur frowns, too, mimicking. When Merlin sits back a little, expression slackening into nothing, Arthur copies that motion, too. It feels better. He needs someone to just tell him what to do right now. Merlin, at least, has always been good at that.

“What do you need, Arthur?” Merlin asks, voice soft as his eyes, and Arthur’s heart breaks just a little bit more. Because, oh, that’s right—Merlin can’t tell him what he should do because Merlin, gods, how it hurts to know this, but Merlin doesn’t know him anymore. His closest companion, his truest friend, gone. And kneeling before him.

Arthur looks away from Merlin’s face. Behind him, sallow and still, lays his father.

He thinks he’s going to be sick.

Merlin pushes himself up, using Arthur’s knee as leverage, and that pain helps. He rocks into it as Merlin steps aside, whispering to Gaius. On another day, this would infuriate Arthur. He’s the prince, and he doesn’t deserve to be whispered about—

But Arthur’s looking at his father’s face, and he doesn’t much care who is whispering or what their whispers are about.

Around him, the chambers empty. First the scully maids, then the visiting lords, then Gaius himself. Before long, only Arthur and Merlin remain.

Arthur glances up, wondering if Merlin knows what an effort it was to tilt his head just enough to look up at him.

“I thought you might want some privacy,” Merlin supplies, wringing his hands together. It’s a new gesture his Merlin never did. Or at least, if he had done, hadn’t in so long that Arthur has forgotten all about it.

Arthur forces a smile on his face, though he knows it must be weak and soulless. “You thought right,” Arthur compliments, and he feels a little better. His Merlin is gone, but the Merlin he has now is trying. He gets some things right on instinct, instinct that his Merlin learned, and it makes Arthur feel a little bit less alone.

Merlin comes back over and sits in the chair beside him. He drags it, the scraping sound of the legs jarring and unpleasant. Arthur shoots Merlin a scowl, but it’s heatless, and Merlin just shrugs.

Together, they sit in silence.

No, Arthur thinks with a flinch. They sit in vigil.

“He was defending me,” Arthur whispers. He places his two hands underneath his legs, sitting on them. They burn. He wants to reach out—grab Merlin’s hands, punch a wall, shake his father, anything, anything would be better than just this, just sitting—But Arthur can’t do anything. So he sits on his hands.

Merlin nods. “I heard what happened,” he replies gently. An out.

Arthur takes it.

“Can you tell me what Gaius said?” He asks, closing his eyes. This vulnerability feels like taking a jagged spoon to the inside of his belly, but he knows that Merlin won’t say a word about it. Won’t ever tell another how weak he’s being, won’t use it against him. It’s not in his nature. Memory or not, Merlin doesn’t know how to be anything but kind.

Unbidden, Arthur thinks of the Callieach’s horrified face, and flinches again.

“The dagger touched the King’s heart,” Merlin says. His voice doesn’t tremble, but he says it thickly, like it’s taking a lot to get the intonation he wants just right. Arthur can’t imagine how Merlin is feeling right now. His King is dead—but, that’s not true, is it? Because Merlin isn’t from Camelot. And Merlin doesn’t remember his time here, his fealty to Uther, how he defended him more than once. Not to mention, Merlin has magic. Magic, he knows, that must make an already difficult fealty much more strenuous.

Arthur wonders if he’s sick to being doing this—to be leaning on a magic user right now. His father would call him deranged, if not worse. Morgana would be disgusted at his hypocrisy. Merlin, before, Merlin would have… Well, he doesn’t have to guess. He knows what Merlin would have done.

Merlin reaches over, a hand on Arthur’s arm, and Arthur thinks, yes, exactly that.

“Gaius has given him medicine to keep him comfortable,” Merlin continues, and Arthur breathes deep through his nose, trying to hold it together. “But he is unlikely to survive.”

The words feel final coming from Merlin.

Arthur feels them like death knolls.

He scrubs his hands down his face, accidentally knocking Merlin’s hand away. He hates that he wishes for it back immediately.

“Arthur…” Merlin’s eyes feel as heavy as looking at the entire counsel. Like looking at the whole kingdom. There’s so much that Arthur isn’t ready to do, and that starts and ends with the look in Merlin’s eyes.

“There must be something.” Arthur looks at his father again. He’s always seemed so… Strong. Immovable. The only time Arthur ever thought his father vulnerable was when Morgana attacked the citadel. And tonight… Arthur had seen his improvement. He was improving, healing, caring again—finally, Arthur was becoming enough, was doing well enough and being strong enough to run the kingdom in a way that his father could appreciate, and his father was finally seeing that maybe Arthur’s love was at least worth living for as much as Morgana’s was worth dying over.

But then this…

Arthur wishes it had been him.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “Gaius would have said if there was anything at all to try. The blade has hit a mortal wound.”

“No, I can’t believe that.” Arthur stands up, his aching knees nearly buckling. He begins pacing. “There must be a—a—surgery, something experimental, a rare flower or herb or—a—” He stops.

His eyes widen.

Across from him, face ashen, Merlin’s eyes widen, too.

“A spell,” Merlin whispers.

Arthur shivers automatically. He feels his very blood react to the idea—magic! On his father! It’s preposterous. It’s treason. It’s ruinous.

It’s the only way.

Merlin leaps up, and the two meet at the foot of Uther’s bed, both breathing heavily.

“Magic,” Arthur says, and he can’t help but flicker a worried gaze over to his father in case he heard. But no, of course not. His father is asleep. His father is dying.

Merlin chews on his bottom lip, eyes flickering from prince to king. “When we… When we saw the body in the forest—”

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupts harshly. He narrows his eyes. “We agreed not to speak of that.”

Merlin nods. “I know. But… You said that I was powerful. Really powerful. Right? You said that.”

“Technically, you said that,” Arthur points out. “I was just repeating you. For all we know, you’re a mage witch with a really good poker face.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Come on, I did some sort of big thing against the god of death or whatever.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Arthur—”

“You called the Callieach a doorkeeper, so really, it’s not that impressive—”

“Arthur—”

“I do not want you getting a big head about that—”

Merlin places his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, dipping his chin just a little so that their eyes meet. “I can do it.”

Arthur’s heart freezes in his chest. “Merlin…” It’s a plea. It’s a warning.

“I can,” Merlin says, and, gods damn him, Arthur believes. Merlin’s whole face has lifted—his eyes shine, bright and blue as the sky itself. His confidence feels like—like the way Arthur knows he’s meant to be king one day. Like a birthright.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, his throat tight. “Merlin, how can you—I mean, you don’t have—I mean—”

“I can’t explain it, Arthur. It’s just… I can feel it. The magic. It’s inside of me, it’s part of me. It is me. I know I can jump. I know I can crawl. I know I can do this.”

Against all odds, hope flourishes in Arthur’s chest. He clings to it—which, in this case, means pushing his fingers into Merlin’s tunic, eyes growing wetter as he stares at Merlin’s face.

“You can save my father?”

Merlin’s eyes are wet, too. He swallows hard, audible. “I will save your father, Arthur. I promise you.”

Merlin’s never broken a promise to Arthur. Not once. He has lied and he has cheated, Arthur must admit that. But he’s never broken a promise. He’s never hurt Arthur the way he’s poised to if he fails now. And if Merlin can just know that his magic can save a life, then Arthur can just know this: Merlin would never fail him.

Arthur clasps a hand on Merlin’s elbow, eyes searching. “Do it,” he commands. “Please, Merlin.”

Merlin beams. He leaps in place for a minute before he starts moving in aborted half-motions. “I need to talk to Gaius,” Merlin says quickly, walking to the King and doing what Arthur has learned over the years is Gaius’s quick medical intake. “I need to make sure there’s nothing I don’t know, like a spell that would help increase my magic or herbs. It would also be helpful to come up with a cover story, you know, so the King doesn’t instantly lob my head off when I succeed.”

Arthur lets out a delighted laugh. “When you succeed?” He teases. He feels lighter than he has in hours—in years.

“Yes, when,” Merlin agrees cockily, a grin still on his face. Arthur fights the urge to hug the other man—he’ll save that. For when Merlin heals his father. Arthur lets out another bright laugh.

“I’m going, I’m going.” Merlin heads to the door.

“Yes, go!” Arthur shoos. “I’ll—I’ll think of what to say. There are a few that I shall like to tell in advance.”

Merlin pauses, looking over his shoulder.

“Not about you,” Arthur is quick to explain. “Just that I am using magic. It will be good to prepare people for the King’s recovery so they don’t start looking around at who was here and might have done that magic. We’ll need to keep your name far from this. Perhaps there is a disguise that you could wear. A spell, perhaps—Oh, for god’s sake.” Arthur stops short, a scowl on his face.

Merlin cocks his head. “What?”

“It was you!” Arthur exclaims, pointing angrily. “It was you, wasn’t it? That old man with the familiar eyes! The one who put that enchantment—why would you have done that? What did you call yourself—Dragoon! Gods, that’s infuriating.”

Merlin blinks owlishly. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

Arthur points his finger again. “I have half a mind to send you straight to the dungeon for that.”

Merlin smirks. “Perhaps saving the king’s life will give me pardon?” Merlin teases.

Immediately, Arthur softens. His anger and frustration evaporates. “Yes,” he says softly, joyfully. “Perhaps it will.”

Merlin’s smile widens and softens again. He raps his knuckles on the door. “I’ll be back with a plan and a disguise.”

Arthur beams, his heart skipping a beat at Merlin’s grin. He waits until Merlin’s gone to lean over his father, kissing him once, gently on the forehead. “I’ll be back, Father,” he says. “And you will be fine.”

Arthur straightens his shirt, smoothing his hair down, and heads out of the room. He’d like to tell Gwen, who he knows is upset about this after caring for the king for so long. Of course, he’ll need to be discreet, but he’d also like to inform his uncle. Agravaine was surprisingly upset about his father’s decline. He’d like to put him at ease as soon as possible.

Then, together, he and Merlin will save his father’s life. Long live the King.

Chapter Text

Merlin races through the castle corridors, his heart hammering wildly in his chest.

 This, he realizes, is important.

Merlin might not have all his memories, but he’s no fool. He knows that the way magic is feared in Camelot means that it is beyond Arthur’s last resort. The trepidation his friends feel when he’s near is because of the magic, he’s certain of it. If Merlin can heal Arthur’s father, then maybe, just maybe, no one will be afraid anymore.

Merlin feels so gleeful, he could scream.

He gets back to Gaius’s chambers quickly, breathing heavily as he pants for the old man’s attention.

“Merlin,” Gaius greets, not even looking up.

Merlin is a bit affronted, but more than anything, he’s thrilled, so he ignores it. “Gaius, I have wonderful news! And I need your help! For the wonderful thing!”

This, at last, gets Gaius’s attention. He peers up, eyebrow already raising. “What is it?” He asks.

“I’m going to save the King!” He declares happily.

The blood drains from Gaius’s face, leaving him ashen. “Merlin, no!” He exclaims, horrified. Merlin stumbles back in surprise. Gaius clambers off his wooden bench, struggling to stand. Merlin comes to him to help, but Gaius’s intensity has him faltering.

“What?” Merlin asks, brows furrowed. “Arthur asked me to! And I can. I know I can, Gaius.”

“Be that as it may, Merlin, you cannot!” He cries.

Merlin doesn’t understand. “You’re friends with the King. You’re—You are devoted to him.”

Gaius’s eyes are full of tears again. Merlin feels awful. Can he not do anything right? Every conversation he has with Gaius leaves the old man in tears.

“And yet I beg of you, Merlin, do not take this risk.”

Merlin searches Gaius’s face. He realizes with a start that he loves him. He truly loves Gaius. He’s become so important to Merlin in just a few days.

“I cannot turn Arthur away.” Merlin explains as gently as he can.

Gaius is furious. “You think Uther will thank you for healing him with magic? He’ll most likely have you hanged.”

Merlin nods. “Uther will never change his attitude to magic. I know that. But if Arthur allows it to be used to heal his father, his attitude will be changed forever. He will see that magic can be a force for good.”

Gaius’s trembling hands reach for Merlin’s face. Merlin covers them with his own. Both men are near tears.

“He is already changing,” Gaius whispers. “Already he believes you are good.”

“This could cement that forever.” Merlin says with such bone-shattering hope, he doesn’t know how Gaius doesn’t feel it, too. “I could spare him pain and heartache.”

Gaius drops his arms, turning away quickly. He only makes it a few steps before he turns back. “I cannot stand by and let you do this Merlin.”

Merlin loves Gaius. But there is no one and no thing more precious to him than Arthur. He can see the moment that Gaius realizes he won’t get through to him. “Don’t try and stop me, because you can’t.”

Gaius deflates. He looks so old, Merlin imagines him falling into himself. His heart aches. He hates this—that to protect one friend he must harm another. But he will do whatever it takes to protect Arthur. Memories or no, Arthur is the truest thing Merlin knows.

“Then I suppose I must hope you succeed,” Gaius says with a sigh. He walks away. Merlin lets him, lowering himself on the bench. He taps his foot against the ground, trying to think of a way to both heal Uther and not let himself be seen by the King. Perhaps a momentary blinding spell? Are there herbs that would prevent ones senses for just a moment, while still allowing Merlin to see if he’s okay? He turns, looking to the many dried plants hanging.

Gaius sets a small leather tome in front of him.

Merlin blinks. “Gaius?”

“If you are going to risk your life, I will not have you doing it half-heartedly. Gwillem of Cambria was as mad as a coot, but there has never been a better healer.”

Merlin’s fingers touch the book. His soul surges.

Though in the literal sense it must not be true, Merlin can’t help but feel overwhelmed: this is the first gift he’s ever been given.

“Thank you,” he says with feeling.

Gaius puts a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Oh my boy.”

Merlin flips through the book with Gaius over his shoulder. He doesn’t need this spell. He doesn’t need any spell. Merlin is not sure what magic is like for others, or what it was like for him before his sacrifice at the gate, but he feels magic the way he feels his blood: as in, rarely, unless it is being expunged from him, but plentiful, nevertheless. It is a solid fact. It flows through him. It sustains him. He does not need a spell to conjure it—a flick of a blade will do.

Still, the book was thoughtful and appears precious. So Merlin flicks through it, musing at the small words scribbled beside text.

After a few minutes, Merlin rises. “I need to meet Arthur. He should be back now.”

Gaius’s face hardens. “I would like to accompany you, Merlin.”

Merlin sees no reason to deny him this, so he nods. “I’d be glad to have you.”

Together, Merlin and Gaius return to the King’s quarters. Merlin shoots a hesitant look towards the guards, but Gaius strolls straight in, so Merlin follows.

“Merlin!” Arthur exclaims, shooting up from the chair he was sitting in. Beside him, flat in the bed, Uther looks worse than he did when Merlin first spotted the king.

Gwen is there, by the fire, looking between them all with wide eyes.

“I told her,” Arthur blurts out.

Gwen steps forward hesitantly. “I caught Arther in the hall,” she says, eyes flickering nervously between Merlin and Gaius. “We spoke.”

“Gwen thought it best to keep it just between the four of us,” Arthur says. He looks to Gwen, who gives him an encouraging smile. “I was intending to inform my uncle—”

At this, Gaius releases a startled, choked sound.

Merlin and Arthur send Gaius identical curious looks.

“But Gwen thought it best to keep the informed party small.” He finishes, frowning.

“Yes,” Gwen says with a nod. Her eyes nervously flicker to Merlin and Gaius. “I thought it best.”

Merlin gives Gwen a careful look. He’s seen her around, of course, and all the knights speak so fondly of Elyan’s sister. But he hasn’t had much of a chance to talk to her. He glances at Arthur a bit nervously. Wasn’t his magic a really big secret? That’s what all the knights said, over and over again, on the ride back from Camelot after they buried the dead body in the woods.

“I already knew of your magic, Merlin,” Gwen says softly, surprising him. He turns to her with something like wonder. “You told me yourself.”

“I did?” He searches her face, desperate for recognition.

She nods. “You did. I’m sorry we’ve not spoken sooner. I’ve been so busy—That is no excuse. The real reason is… Well, I thought perhaps you were overwhelmed. I was…” She trails off. “Afraid to be a bother.”

Instantly, Merlin is smitten with Gwen. “I am glad I told you,” he tells her. “Even if I don’t remember.”

She beams. She comes forward further, smoothing her dress down. “Of course, it goes without saying I will protect your secret.”

His secret.

The secret that they’re all here for—he is going to use magic to save the king.

Merlin swallows hard. He hasn’t actually tried to use magic yet. It’s just sort of happened around him. He can feel it, this sort of sunken knowledge that he is powerful, but… This will be his first true test.

Arthur sends Gaius a wary look, but Gaius pops up his eyebrow and Arthur backs down instantly.

“Thank you both for coming.” Arthur gives Gaius a curious glance.

Gaius folds his arms across his chest. “I am the court physician.”

Merlin clears his throat. “Gaius has some hesitations?”

“Gaius?” Arthur asks anxiously. He wrings his hands together.

Gwen stands beside Arthur, a hand on his arm. “Is there—Could this make things worse?”

At that, Gaius deflates. “No, sire,” he admits. “The King’s wound is fatal. There is nothing that could make this worse.”

Arthur’s face crumples at the reminder, but he smooths it quickly. He gives Merlin a firm nod.

Merlin swallows hard. He pushes his hands together, blinking rapidly.

You can do this, Merlin, he thinks. You can save him.

Merlin walks slowly over to the King. He takes him in, checking his breath, his pulse, his heart, the things Gaius has been teaching him. His hands shake as he straightens.

“Well,” he says, voice cracking a little. “Here goes nothing—"

“Wait!”

Merlin freezes. He and Gaius exchange a look. “Is something wrong?”

“My father has taught me never to trust magic, and now I am using it to save him.”

Merlin’s stomach sinks.

Gaius considers the Prince. “Your own life has been saved by magic more times than you can possibly imagine.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, eyes boring into Merlin’s. “I suppose that’s true.”

Merlin swallows hard. He licks his lips. “Let me try, Arthur,” he says gently. “I can try.”

Arthur and Merlin lock eyes.

Merlin feels something greater than his own emotion swell up inside of him. It’s as if a hurricane is raging inside of him, the oceans angry and thrashing to get out, only Merlin’s skin and bones trapping it back. Merlin’s head aches and his heart squeezes and he feels faint and dizzy and afraid—he gets flashes, Arthur atop a horse in battle, Merlin weather and old on top of a mountain, Gwen unconscious and being carried into the water, Uther’s rageful voice calling him a sorcerer, Arthur holding Merlin’s hand to his chest, pale and sweating, I want you to always be you—and Merlin slams back into himself, panting heavily.

Magic, like fire, singes from the inside out.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks, his voice soft and warbled like across the sea.

Merlin’s eyes burn. He’s sure they’re flaring gold. “It’s time.”

He can feel the magic within him, so much grander and more powerful than anything he’s ever experienced himself, and he struggles to hold onto it, a slippery, croaking frog in a small child’s hands, and with everything in him, Merlin pushes that magic towards Uther.

“Efencume ætgædre, eala gastas cræftige: gestricie pis lic forod!” He cries. The words well within him, and he chants them, over and over again. Around him, he can hear the others gasping, speaking, calling his name, but he ignores them. He focuses on this newfound depth within himself: he sees Arthur chasing him across the grass, Gwen trimming his hair in the servant’s quarters, Gaius checking his forehead while urging him to eat soup. These memories are not his own… Or they are, perhaps, but he has not lived them… He clings to them, but to push the magic, he’s forced to let go.

It's not enough. “Efencume ætgædre, eala gastas cræftige: gestricie pis lic forod!”

Again. “Efencume ætgædre, eala gastas cræftige: gestricie pis lic forod.”

Uther’s eyes flutter. Arthur falls to his knees. “Father!?”

“Efencume ætgædre, eala gastas cræftige: gestricie pis lic forod!”

Merlin can feel it working—can feel the surge of magic wrap tenderly and gently around the puck of Uther’s soul. He urges it back while his magic deftly sews the tear in Uther’s heart.

“Arthur?” The King’s voice is weak. Merlin redoubles his efforts.

“Efencume ætgædre, eala gastas cræftige: gestricie pis lic forod!”

“It’s working!” Gwen cries.

“Arthur?” The King says again, his voice stronger.

“Father, please, hold still—Father, you’re very injured—”

Merlin pushes more. He can feel it—he almost has enough magic called from within himself to push into the king and heal him. He starts to slowly drain it into Uther.

“Wait, please—"

“Uther, rest still, you’re gravely injured—”

“Sorcery!”

“Father, don’t—”

“Uther, please—”

“No!”

“Merlin!”

Merlin stumbles, the magic flowing hard, flying across the floor. His head hits the ground hard enough that he sees stars.

He moans in pain, sitting up—he realizes that Gwen has thrown him out of her way with surprisingly effective force. He looks and sees Arthur restraining his father. Uther is flat against the bed, breathing heavily, a dagger wet with blood in his hand.

Out of instinct, Merlin pats at his own body—but he is fine.

His eyes dart around—Uther stares at him with such vile hatred, it makes Merlin flinch. Arthur looks at him with heartbreak. Gaius is on the floor, kneeling beside—

Gwen.

Gwen, with a pool of blood around her.

“Merlin,” Gaius says, his voice frantic. “Hurry, press here!”

Merlin crawls to where Gaius is, pressing his hands flat against the wound that Uther’s blade had caused. Gaius gently rolls Gwen over—blood spills already from her lips.

“What have you done?” Arthur demands, horrified.

Uther spits at Merlin. “Let me go this, Arthur, if you are not strong enough to slay this beast yourself!”

“He was helping you!”

“He is a sorcerer!” Uther screeches.

Gwen lays so still beneath his hands.

“Gaius?” Arthur cries. Merlin’s head swims and his stomach rolls. “Gaius, he’s passed out!” A quick glance shows that, yes, Uther is now slack and unconscious. Tentatively, Arthur releases him.

“What do we do, Gaius?” Merlin whispers, using his shoulder to wipe away the tears clogging his vision. “Gaius, what do we do?”

Gaius’s despair overwhelms his professional disposition.

Arthur cries out. He lands between them, cradling Gwen’s face in his hands. “Guinevere, Guinevere,” he says softly.

Merlin is going to be sick. “He was aiming for me—I barely even know her.”

Everything is wrong. The King lay dying now that Merlin is not pushing his magic into him, Arthur weeps, Gaius stays silent, and Gwen—Gwen who he only just met—

With a painful cry, Merlin grabs at his skull. Flashes of bright light blind him.

“—Lin! Merlin! Merlin, focus!” Gaius grabs his wrists harshly. Merlin manages to squint one eye open.

“Hurts, it hurts, Gaius,” he whimpers.

“Gaius, what is it? What’s wrong with him?” Arthur’s voice is thick. “What have I done? What have I done?”

“Oh, my boy,” Gaius says heartfully, and he pulls Arthur into a hug.

Merlin feels Gwen’s blood between his fingers.

He feels the shape of Uther’s soul, still familiar as his magic was just wrapped around it. He feels the swell of his own power, his own life force he was just drawing upon, like a room full of powder kegs.

“Arthur,” he gets out. His voice is rough, full of grit. He can still barely see. It’s like someone is using a hammer against his skull—like something is trying to get out. “Arthur!”

His friend’s head snaps up. His cheeks are tear-stained. His eyes are so blue, they could be the sky.

Merlin reaches a hand out, grabbing Arthur at the sleeve. Blood smears.

“I can still do it,” he pants. “I can save him. But you have to restrain him, so I can do it now.”

Arthur cries out. He looks towards his father, tears still streaming.

“Do you—Can you save both of them?” Arthur tuns back to him with so much hope in his eyes that Merlin’s throat convulses and his stomach wretches. “Can you save Gwen and my father?”

Merlin doesn’t need to consult a book or his mentor. He shakes his head.

“The price is always a life for a life, Arthur,” he says; he has no idea where that came from. But it feels true. It feels like how he knew what a horse was and that fire was hot. He just knows. “I can only bargain with my own.”

Arthur’s already ashen face pales further. “You are the… I will lose you?” His voice cracks.

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t—I don’t know how to—Gaius, can you—”

Gaius looks like he might be sick, too. “Some translations of the word Emrys,” he says with feeling, not looking away from Gwen. “Means eternal.”

Arthur sucks in a breath. He looks at Merlin again. There is something in his gaze that stops Merlin’s blood cold. Like when Gwen took a blade for him, Merlin realizes no matter what he feels for these people, he does not know them. Not as they know him.

“Save Guinevere, Merlin,” Arthur says. Though it comes out shaky and stricken, it is no less of a command.

“As you wish, my King.” Merlin vows.

Merlin’s magic flies out without a conscious thought. It surges through Gwen, starting at the roots of her hair and pumping through her blood, sewing and mending and filling—her soul in his magic is warm like holding hands.

Beneath them, Gwen’s eyes fly open and she lets out a strangled, gasping scream.

Arthur falls back, sinking into the stone. The room echoes with emptiness. His decision has been made. Merlin made it so.

In the breadth of one moment, it’s over.

Gwen lives, Merlin faints, and the King of Camelot dies.

Chapter Text

Arthur’s pen feels as heavy as his sword as he shakily signs his name.

It is the first time he’s written it with the word King before it since he was a child. When he was first learning to write, he would sometimes write it in big, lopsided letters, dreaming of a day when he would rule all of Camelot.

Now that the day has arrived, his handwriting looks just as childish.

He feels just as childish.

Feeling sorry for yourself won’t get anything done, he imagines Merlin saying to him, a disapproving frown on his face. You must believe in yourself, Arthur.

It tastes wrong coming from his own head, but he pictures Merlin saying it, and he manages to finish the letters of his name and look up at the courier with a smile. “This should do it,” he says, aiming for a normal tone of voice. From the sympathetic nod of the courier’s head, he doesn’t think he makes it.

Though surely the news of King Uther Pendragon’s death has reached the other kingdoms, Arthur has had to write to his fellow rulers to inform them regardless. The courtesy was surprisingly hurtful. Each time he wrote it, he felt himself grow weaker and weaker.

Perhaps it would have been better to allow someone else to pen the letters. Leon, perhaps. Merlin likely would have had it done before Arthur even remembered the protocol, already forged his signature and waxed the seals.

But Merlin was asleep.

He had been asleep since the day he saved Guinevere’s life and damned his father’s.

Stop it, he thinks harshly. Merlin did not damn his father. He did—it was Arthur’s fault. All of this, every last horrible thing… his father’s initial wound, Gwen’s near death, Merlin’s now unconscious, tentative recovery… it was all him. If Arthur had been smarter or stronger or better, his father wouldn’t have been hurt. If Arthur had been smarter or stronger or better, he would have predicted that his father’s rage at magic would turn violent. If Arthur had been smarter or stronger or better, he would have asked Merlin the consequence of life saving magic.

But he wasn’t. He was stupid and weak and the worst of all of them. So his father was dead, Gwen was afraid of him, and Merlin was fighting for his life.

Gaius said he would be fine—that magic required recovery. But Arthur wasn’t so sure. Merlin looked… He looked like he was dying.

Arthur pushes back from his chair, disgusted with himself. The servant—who is not Merlin—startles.

“You’re dismissed,” he snaps, then feels badly for it, and offers a shaky smile in apology. This only seems to distress the poor servant more. He flees like his life depends on it.

Arthur sighs heavily again. He runs his hands through his hair. It’s getting long. Too long. Merlin used to be positively anal about it. He’d trim it once a week, as serious as a knight doing a drill. Arthur used to tease him about it. Meanly, really. Back when Merlin first started, Arthur had done whatever he could to diffuse how uncomfortable the other man’s sincere service made him. Over the years, though, Arthur had gotten used to it. Sometimes he would close his eyes, just feeling Merlin’s fingers in his hair, his head literally getting lighter and lighter to hold up. Other times, he’d watch Merlin’s focused expression, sharp eyes calculating hair length like it was Gaius’s potion ingredients.

But ever since that day in the woods, the day Merlin hit his head and woke up different… Well, he’s not had a trim since.

He needs to get out of his chambers. He’s getting melancholy again, and he’s not very good at pulling himself out of it lately. Without Merlin or Gwen or Morgana, it’s hard to stay afloat all by himself.

God, he misses Morgana. He misses her, the way they used to bicker, the way she used to laugh, how they would tease each other until the one of them lost, a game he was quick to lose and joyful to win and so confident he could play forever. She was his sister in all but blood, until everything changed and now blood is all that remains between them.

Morgana is gone. The Morgana he knew is dead. Just like his father.

He finds himself walking towards Gaius’s chambers without even trying. His legs just carry him there. The whole castle is quiet, subdued. The death of the king has hit the people of Camelot hard.

Arthur has complicated, unruly feelings about it like the roots of trees in his chest. He can’t begin to decipher them.

When he gets to the physician chambers, he hesitates outside. He really shouldn’t be bothering Gaius… He’s busy, caring for Merlin, caring for Camelot without Merlin there to help. And, in his own way, Father’s death was hard on Gaius. They were companions, in a way.

But the urge to go inside, to smell the bitter herbs and the soothing spices coming from Gaius’s potions, feel the warmth because second to his chambers, Gaius’s is always the warmest—thinking about that, Arthur wonders if Merlin has something to do with that, too—and he wants to see them. These men who were there with him. Who know what he knows, exactly, down to the second, these men where he doesn’t have to hide the complicated heartbreak and responsibility he bears.

Because he is responsible. He is. Merlin could have saved his father—his king. And Arthur didn’t let him.

He feels sick to his stomach. He feels terminal that he doesn’t regret it.

He knocks on Gaius’s door, uncharacteristically timid. He even waits for Gaius’s “Enter!” before he lets himself in.

Gaius’s surprise would be funny if Arthur was in the mood to enjoy things. As it is, he just gives the old man a shrug.

“Never too old to learn manners, Merlin says,” Arthur jokes weakly.

Gaius smiles kindly. “Too right, sire.” He moves from behind his work bench, wiping his hands on his apron. “Would you care for some tea?”

Arthur walks in a little deeper into the chambers, hesitantly looking at the boiling pot that Gaius has lifted. There is a pleasant smell coming from the steam, but Arthur knows better than to trust that. “It isn’t… Medicinal, is it?”

Gaius’s amusement pops his brows up. “No, sire.” After a brief pause, he sighs. “It tastes very good.”

“Well,” Arthur says, pretending like he isn’t actually very relieved to hear that. “If it tastes very good.”

He sits in the chair by the fire, eyes flickering between Gaius and the door that leads to Merlin’s chambers. The urge to go in there, to check with his own eyes, how his manservant is, feels like battle readiness. Almost like the inaction is unease, is fear. Arthur has been getting daily updates, and Gaius assures him that Merlin is safe, just recovering… But…

Gaius comes over, two steaming mugs in his steady hands.

As always, it takes Gaius no time at all to discern the issue at hand.

“He is strong, Arthur. Stronger than you know.”

The cryptic message almost flies over his head. He finds himself nodding, accepting the cup, without understanding. Then Arthur startles, just as the hot cup touches him, and he realizes that this is how they did it. All those years, lying to Arthur, tricking him—feeding him meaningful half-truths and hoping that he didn’t ask questions.

Stronger than I know, Arthur thinks. Because of course he is. Of course there is a dozen stories, likely more, that show Merlin’s true strength—strength that Arthur barely got a glimpse at in that horrible place full of death. Arthur doesn’t know Merlin at all.

Arthur’s heart hurts. He didn’t think it was possible to be more heartsick than he was a moment ago, but he feels cracked open. Stupid. Ineffectual. A terrible leader, a worse friend—

He swallows hard around the lump in his throat. His hands shake as he lifts the tea to his lips.

“Sire?” Gaius’s voice is gentle. Caring. Does he care? Perhaps. Perhaps he does. Perhaps he simply cares about Merlin more. Arthur can’t blame the man that. Sure, Arthur always considered Gaius to be a true friend in his life, there every day since he was born, almost like a father… But Arthur would choose Merlin, too, in the end. He proved that.

Can you save them both?

I will lose you?

He had been prepared to tell Merlin to shut it down. To stop the magic, to stop the healing. If saving his father or saving Guinevere had meant Merlin’s death, he had been prepared to stop it. He knows that the way he knows any other fact about himself: He is the heir of Camelot—no, he is the King. He is the son of Uther and Ygraine Pendragon. He loved his sister. He killed his mother. He wouldn’t have let Merlin sacrifice himself. It wouldn’t have been right.

He doesn’t know if it’s because he valued Merlin above all others or because it was the right thing to do or because then the magic—a life for a life—would have been too close to the magic that took his mother… All he knows is that he was going to pick Merlin, too.

“Guinevere is still in good health?” Arthur asks for confirmation, too afraid to reply to Gaius’s concern.

The old man pauses ever so slightly before he dips his head, nodding. “Still shaken, I think, but physically it is as if it never happened.”

Arthur nods as well. “Of course. A wound like that must have been frightening.”

“And who it came from,” Gaius replies. Arthur’s brows leap. “You understand, sire, that not a peasant out there did not in some way fear your father.”

Again, Arthur surprises himself with the depth of his ability to feel. The hurt grows anew.

“He was a good king,” Arthur defends, barely thinking before the words come out.

Gaius hums. “He made Camelot prosperous,” Gaius says. “And he killed Gwen’s father for sorcery.”

Arthur looks away. His eyes sting. He sips his tea.

“I do not wish to speak ill of him,” Gaius continues, unaware or uncaring for the pain this is causing Arthur. "I only mean to say that Gwen’s recovery will be psychological as well, and it has nothing to do with you.”

A comfort, then. That Arthur’s father, who he misses like air when drowning, was a bastard who harmed others. Who terrified others. Who terrified all of them, really.

“Of course,” he murmurs, all that he can force his throat to do.

Arthur wants Merlin. He wants to go riding, he wants to watch Merlin struggle to quip his way out of a chore list a mile long, he wants to pretend like he doesn’t want to hear the gossip Merlin chatters at him while he makes the bed. He wants everything to be like it was a year ago before he kept losing, losing, losing, everyone he loves, everyone he cares for—

“Arthur?”

Merlin’s voice is tentative, shaky, and Arthur’s head snaps up so quickly that it stings like a white hot flash of pain. Like magic, Merlin has answered his silent call.

“Merlin,” he breathes, stumbling up. He spills the mug, hot tea splashing onto his skin, and he curses loudly, hissing at the pain. He drops the cup, and then Gaius is there, moving his palms.

“Tsk. This needs wrapped. Foolish,” Gaius scolds lightly. Arthur feels it like a fist. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Sorry, Gaius,” he murmurs.

Gaius softens. Arthur can’t bare to look at that. He looks away.

Merlin, a blanket wrapped around his thin shoulders and a frown on his face, steps forward. “I could… Heal it?”

“No!” Arthur shouts instantly. His heart beats fast in his chest. No. No more healing. Healing gets Merlin comatose and people stabbed and—“No, thank you.”

Merlin chews on his bottom lip, head bobbing up and down. Gaius looks between them.

“Merlin,” he says gently. “Would you wrap the King’s hands? Now that you are awake, I should do my rounds.”

Arthur flinches. King. He still isn’t used to it. Being called the king reminds him that his father is dead. And it’s all my fault.

“If… Arthur is okay with that…?” Merlin says softly, hesitantly.

Arthur doesn’t really want to be alone with Merlin. The guilt still feels suffocating. But he also can’t bear to be away from him, so he nods.

“It’s quite alright.” He says when it seems they’re both waiting on him for something.

Like he failed a test – a failure, again and again and again – Gaius sighs. He grabs a basket full of potion vials and leaves them alone.

Arthur looks at Merlin. He takes him in, drinking in the sight of him. His hair is matted to the side of his face a little, sticking up in the back, likely sweat and sleep. He’s got bags under his eyes, stubble on his cheeks… He looks somehow younger and older than Arthur has ever seen him. He looks so familiar, Arthur aches; he looks so strange, Arthur mourns.

Hesitantly, Merlin steps closer. “Come sit?” He asks softly, voice tender like he’s soothing a scared animal.

Arthur can’t find himself wishing for a different tone of voice, though. He nods, following Merlin’s lead, and sits on the work bench while Merlin digs in the cabinets with one hand, the other clasping the blanket tight at his throat.

“You… How are you feeling?” Arthur tries, clearing his throat several times.

Merlin glances behind his shoulder. “Much recovered,” he says with a small smile. “Truthfully, it was more the headache than the exhaustion.”

Guilt flares again. Arthur swallows hard. “Of course.”

He breathes evenly through his nose, the way he learned to do after an injury, and looks at his hand. It doesn’t hurt. He wishes, briefly, miserably, that it did.

“I am sorry,” Merlin says lightly, coming to sit beside him. “That I have not been there with you these last few days.”

Arthur can’t stomach being apologized to. He shakes his head. “You have nothing to apologize for. Rest is… Well earned.”

Merlin ducks his head. He reaches out to wrap Arthur’s hand. Arthur lets him, not making it difficult or anything, just letting his arm fall pliable and limp so he doesn’t cause Merlin any more of a headache.

Guilt gnaws inside of him like teeth. He thinks he could vomit from it.

Then, to his absolute despair, he sees Merlin’s shoulders shaking.

He reaches forward without thinking, grabbing Merlin’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, and lifting until he can see his face. Bloodshot eyes are full of tears, his nose bright red, as if he is doing everything he can to hold in his cries.

Arthur’s stomach clenches violently. “Merlin,” he manages.

“Arthur, I am sorry,” Merlin says again, but pleadingly, eyes wide and wet. And Arthur wants to turn back time, again and again and again, and he doesn’t know what to do—his fingers spread, sliding up, and then instead of gripping Merlin’s chin, he has his fingers flat against the side of Merlin’s face. Merlin’s hand flies up, curling around his wrist.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Arthur says again meaningfully. He ducks his chin a bit, capturing Merlin’s gaze when it tries to flit away. “I am your King, Merlin, and you did nothing more than what I asked.”

Merlin’s chin wobbles. His fingernails dig into Arthur’s skin. “I wanted to save him for you,” he whispers.

Arthur’s heart cracks. He swallows hard, once, twice. He nods. Then his hand moves again, the added weight of Merlin’s grip not loosening. His hand curves around Merlin’s head and he pulls Merlin into a hug. Immediately, Merlin wraps his arms around Arthur, fists against his back, hugging him tight. He buries his face in Arthur’s neck.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. His neck grows wet and warm from Merlin’s tears and breath. His back aches from the strange position and pressure. He doesn’t want to let go, though—here, Merlin’s heart against his own, he knows that Merlin is okay, is safe, is real, and he wouldn’t trade that for anything at all.

He’s been so worried. So afraid. So stupid and callous and unsure and betrayed and a thousand other little things that, when the blade is drawn, don’t matter at all. At the end of the day, Merlin is here. He isn’t the Merlin Arthur knows, isn’t the strange cursed Merlin he got used to, but he is Merlin. And he’s vulnerable and sincere and he takes his service to Arthur so serious, whether he’s performing magic to save the king or cut his hair. And Arthur loves him. He loves him, in a bone aching, heart shattering, life altering way. He loves him as his dearest friend and his brother in arms and his loyalist companion and he loves him encompassing, in ways he can’t even understand right now, but it’s real and it cuts through the grief, and Arthur pulls him tighter.

“I failed you,” Merlin gasps into his skin. “You asked me to save him, save them both, but I couldn’t. I failed—”

“You did not,” Arthur interrupts fiercely. He cups the back of Merlin’s head. His other hand, half-wrapped in soft binding, grips at Merlin’s elbow, the closest thing he could reach. “You did not fail me, Merlin. You’ve never failed me.”

“But you asked—"

“Forget what I asked. Forget everything I’ve ever said to you. All I want is this. You are alive,” he says softly. “You are alive, and you saved Gwen’s life. You are her best friend, and you saved her. You only did as I asked, Merlin. You did nothing wrong. You are alive.”

And Merlin shudders, squeezing Arthur tighter, before slowly relaxing his grip. Arthur relaxes his, too. Neither of them move, though. Both just sit there, breathing against each other, and Arthur thinks that maybe even without his memories, Merlin can feel this strange rope between both of their chests. Tomorrow, Arthur will be embarrassed. Tomorrow, he’ll be angry with himself for breaking down and frustrated with his own sensitivity. But right now, he is breathing real, deep, regular breaths, and Arthur is okay for the first time since his father died.

The moment is good and exactly what Arthur needs.

Which, he supposes, is exactly why the gods decided to ruin it. Can’t let Arthur have a moment of peace around here. Even if the gods wanted to, Gwaine certainly wouldn’t let him.

Gaius’s door swings open, and the jaunty, casual disrespect of Gwaine interrupts, ruining the moment entirely. “So,” Gwaine drawls as he saunters in, eyeing Merlin suspiciously as the Arthur pulls away, glaring to hide his pink cheeks. “What’s this I hear about a dragon egg?”

Chapter Text

Merlin held the telephone in his hand, scowling at the grainy photograph.

“That’s not him,” he snapped, forcing himself to calm down as the furniture in his cabin began to hover. He took deep, calming breaths, and repeated himself. “It’s not Arthur Pendragon.”

“It is,” the tinny voice over the cell said, emphatic. “I am in my fourth year of PhD candidacy in Britannic literature, and I am telling you—”

“It’s not him!” The tea pot whistled. Merlin took another deep, centering breath. The water slowly started to cool down.

The person on the other end of the line kept talking, but Merlin checked out of the conversation. Kids nowadays, they always thought they knew more than him. He could write dissertations about things they’d barely even be able to pronounce, and yet, he was being called a burgeoning scholar instead of a primary source expert.

The kid on the phone kept droning on. Merlin was already checked out of the conversation, though. He felt heavy with it, with the distance between him and these other scholars.

Eventually, Merlin managed to get off the phone. He hung it up, slamming it against the wall until the sound reverberated in his bones. Merlin hung his head in his hands. It was no surprise, none at all, that he felt so awful. Each lead was worse than the last. Took more out of him.

Merlin was generally a kind man. He was generally a man who valued experience, knowledge, learning. He was curious by nature. But immortality meant he learned far more than he ever wanted to know. He knew how cruel man could be. He knew how unforgiving the universe was. He knew how it felt to lose the people you love—that one, he knew intimately.

He also knew that being immortal didn’t come without a price.

Each time Merlin lost a lead to Arthur, he lost a piece of himself. Sometimes it was huge, a gaping wound—the first time, that one took half of him. Most of the time, it’s a smaller piece, a manageable piece, only horrifying when he looked at who he once was.

Lately, the pieces had gotten bigger again. He fought the urge to give up. To just sit somewhere, atrophying, not even looking. He wanted so badly to just forget.

But when that thought comes, Arthur’s face returned to him, so clear in detail, so disappointed in his lack of faith—but not entitled to it. No, Arthur never felt worthy of devotion, blood and destiny be damned. But he still felt the loss, when he perceived Merlin’s faith had wavered. Like before the battle—

Merlin closed the thought off like twisting a faucet. He was good at this. He was good at pretending, though he was only good at it for about an hour or so at best. He should get out of the house—go to the pub, make some new memories, let himself be distracted for an hour or two. But Merlin knew what would happen if he went. He’d find a dark corner, he’d drink himself stupid, risking an unfortunate death and resurrection via alcohol poisoning, and carve one more part of this county as a place he couldn’t return. Until, eventually, he had to pack his bags and leave for a generation or two again.

Some times, in some lives, Merlin had people around him. A half dozen centuries ago, he’d had what almost could have been called family. People who knew, if not his secrets, that he at least had them. It was one year… No, two. Two years, he had with people who called him friend and brother. Then they died, because that’s what mortals do. And Merlin had continued on. He hadn’t recovered well.

He could still smell it – the burning of the houses, the way the smoke and ash clung to his skin for weeks.

That kind of companionship, that kind of grief… Well, Merlin didn’t think he had it in him anymore.

Merlin didn’t think he had much left in him.

He stopped thinking of them. Of himself. Of anything. He felt so tired.

He wished he’d never taken that phone call. That he’d never written that scholar about the remastered, computer-generated photograph of King Arthur Pendragon—a man without any light in his eyes, any soul in his visage. A man who was handsome, and tall, and blonde—but not Arthur. Not at all.

Merlin’s insides tugged to the ground. He wanted to crawl into the earth.

He sighed heavily. An hour of rest was better than nothing. Merlin went to his bedroom, turning off all the lights. He went to lay down, and he hoped, helplessly, that he dreamt of Camelot.

Merlin holds the egg between his hands, pressing his fingers to the curve of the shell. It’s sturdier than he imagined it would be; though, to be fair, Merlin hasn’t spent much time at all imagining dragon eggs.

At least, he thinks he hasn’t. The reality is, he doesn’t know much about himself at all, does he?

Occasionally, this knowledge takes his breath away. He has been trying his hardest here in Camelot, in this new life that is as old as anything else. Weeks has passed, and he isn’t any closer to remembering his life before he woke in that forest with Arthur.

Well, there is one thing he remembers—at least, he assumes he remembers it. Arthur is annoying. There’s no way that’s new.

Beside him, Arthur huffs.

“Shouldn’t you be doing something?” Arthur complains, folding his arms across his chest.

Merlin slides his eyes over in the most unimpressed look he can manage. “I’m sorry, sire, would you like me to hatch this dragon right here in your chambers?”

Arthur flinches. It’s a small, slight movement, but it’s enough for Merlin to recognize it. Guilt burns his belly. As much as he is trying, Arthur is trying, too. He sighs, rubbing a hand absently on the egg. It’s comforting.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Merlin reminds him. He tries to not glare, to not feel too irritated, but, come on. Everyone’s walking around, expecting Merlin to know what to do, but he just… Doesn’t.

After Uther… Merlin doesn’t even want to try. He was so confident, so sure. And then he’d gone and messed everything up. He doesn’t want to risk that again.

“You know, I nearly died getting you this egg—”

“You weren’t even close to death!”

“An egg, which I should say, which could very well destroy my kingdom—”

“Like, maybe you would have been maimed. Maybe.”

Arthur throws his hands up. Merlin sticks his tongue out. They are at an impasse.

Merlin gently places the egg on Arthur’s duvet, ignoring the scandalized sound that he makes. Arthur still hasn’t moved into the King’s chambers, preferring instead to stay in the quarters he’s had since he was a child. Merlin secretly thinks that Arthur will never be ready. He is glad. These walls, they feel… Safer. Merlin can feel his own magic radiating from the stones themselves, charms and blessings woven into the materials. He doesn’t want to let Arthur sleep in a room without that.

“We’re lucky Gwaine overheard that man in the tavern,” Arthur says, coming round to stand shoulder to shoulder with Merlin. They both look down at the egg with varying degrees of wariness.

“Quite,” Merlin agrees. His fingers drum on the outer edge of his thigh. He wants to grab the egg and run. But run where? Surely there’s nowhere in all of Camelot safer for Merlin or this dragon egg than Arthur’s chambers.

“What will you do with it now?” Merlin asks, eyes darting up to Arthur’s. A burst of surprise unwinds itself in his belly like trapped air. He feels a sense of responsibility to this egg, a sense of ownership even, but handing that off to Arthur came accidentally and naturally. Somehow, there’s no doubt in Merlin’s mind; of course this is Arthur’s choice.

Arthur seems unaffected by the display of fealty that Merlin has offered. Merlin wonders if he even noticed it. Does he ever?

Unaware, his King sighs. “My father would incinerate it.”

Merlin’s fear clogs his throat like bread.

Arthur dislodges it with a single frown. “But I could never harm an innocent child. Even if it will be a dragon one day.”

“I wish I could have seen the Great Dragon,” Merlin murmurs. He’s heard tales. Something about dragons draws Merlin in like a child desperate to hear stories.

Arthur’s nose scrunches. “His violence was unparalleled. His destruction unholy.”

Merlin flags a little. “I guess I don’t wish I would have seen that.”

Snorting, Arthur nudges Merlin’s shoulder with his own. “No, you wouldn’t have liked it. You didn’t like it.”

Arthur’s face has drawn shut, a look in his eyes that makes him look decades older than he is. Merlin feels a flash of guilt. He’d been hoping to lessen Arthur’s heartache, not make things worse.

He can’t do anything right, he fears. His fingers itch again, and he wants to hold the egg close. He wraps his fingers around his own elbows instead, folding his arms across his chest.

Arthur’s eyes slant over, a deliberate look on his face. “We will put it in the vaults. There, it will be safe until I can decide what to do with it.”

Merlin nods, his throat a bit tight. What other choice is there, really? It’s not like he knows how to open a dragon egg. And it’s not like there’s anyone around who can help.

He supposes Gaius may be a resource, but Arthur’s face is resolute, and Merlin knows better than to mess with plans when Arthur’s brow has taken that particular shape. He dips his head, the way he was taught, and murmurs a soft, “Sire,” before he leaves the room.

Merlin pauses at the threshold, offering Arthur one last glance. His King is standing pensively, a frown on his face, and Merlin’s throat grows tighter still as he slips out of the chambers.

The halls of Camelot castle are sparse today. Merlin knows that it is the grief still in the air from the passing of the late king. Moreso, grief for Arthur, who wears his own like a jacket, the color sharply dyed. Everyone who moves near him can still tell how devastated the new king is. Merlin knows that it is not a special bond between them that makes him so attuned to Arthur’s tempers in this. It is simply how it is; Arthur loved his father, and now he is dead.

What the others don’t know, of course, is that it is Merlin’s fault.

“Merlin!” A cheery voice calls.

Merlin cracks open an eye – when did he close it? – and sees Sir Gwaine standing a bit away, a bright grin on his face. As he walks confidently forward, Merlin sees a tense pull of skin around his eyes.

He claps a jolly hand on Merlin’s shoulder before ducking in a bit closer. “Alright there, mate?” He asks quietly.

Merlin clears his throat, already starting to grin to shake away the concern, but that thickness in his throat is back. He shakes his head.

Gwaine nods, face hardening like stone, before it gives way to that careless expression the knight usually wears. His hand slides across Merlin’s shoulder, over his back, and around the other. When he straightens, Gwaine pulls Merlin up with him.

Merlin doesn’t really need help walking, but he appreciates it all the same.

“The… Egg?” Gwaine asks lowly as they walk through the halls.

Merlin isn’t sure where they’re headed. He’s not sure he cares. “Recovered,” he says lightly, aware that any of the passing servants or guards could be listening.

Gwaine nods, a soft hum in the back of his throat. It’s comforting.

Truly, Gwaine is comforting. The weight of his arm on Merlin’s shoulders, the smell of his clothes, leather and spice and sweat that clings to his skin. Merlin pushes in a little closer, allowing himself this small comfort, as Gwaine leads him down the halls.

There’s a corner he hasn’t taken before—at least in current memory—and a dark, dim lit hall. They go down it, and Gwaine lowers his arm, slow at first, in case Merlin needs it. He considers stumbling just for the comfort again, knowing Gwaine will not but think before he reaches out to steady him again. But his legs are steady, and the guilt in his stomach is starting to feel like acid.

Gwaine’s hand hovers on his shoulder, firm fingers squeezing there, before he drops it. Merlin feels cold, bereft. He pokes against the door, like a tongue against a sore tooth, to remember the first time he met Gwaine. All he can see is that forest, friend and foe blurred, Arthur the only thing that mattered. He hopes, the real first time they met, Merlin had been kinder.

“If,” Gwaine starts lowly, dipping his head. He looks up at him with a grim set to his mouth. “You tell me nothing is the matter, I may very well run you through with my sword.”

Despite the seriousness of his tone and expression, Merlin knows the threat to be false. His lips twitch a bit, not quite a smile, not really, but something. Enough.

“Then the words shall not pass my lips.”

Gwaine’s eyes inexplicably soften. “Merlin.”

Merlin waits. But Gwaine says nothing more. Just his name. Just enough.

Merlin sighs, leaning his head against the cool castle stone. He is, without a doubt, melancholy. He says as much, and something twists at Gwaine’s expression. Before Merlin can identify it, Gwaine’s face is swept smooth.

“Well.” He says, clearing his throat. “I can help with that.”

He winds an arm around Merlin’s again, leading him out of the dim hall. Merlin follows, feeling stronger in his feet. They walk down a long, thick stone staircase, through a partly rusted gate, and then they’re outside.

Merlin exhales sharply. When he breathes in again, it fills his lungs. Full, for perhaps the first time in weeks, Merlin lets out the air again with a laugh.

Gwaine ducks his head, grinning. “Ah, see. A little fresh air never hurt.”

“No,” he admits, allowing the smile tugging his mouth to show. “That it does not, my friend.”

Gwaine beams. Then, he sets off again.

Merlin follows, content. Though Gwaine is leading him away from the castle, Merlin can’t find it within himself to care. He should be going to his bed, to rest. But wherever it is Gwaine is dragging him will be far more pleasurable than the nightmares Merlin has waiting for him in his sleep.

Gwaine doesn’t say anything as they leave the citadel, nodding at the guards stationed by the gate. Merlin slips a little closer, still uneasy with most of the guards.  While many seem pleasant enough, he has found a few have a true grudge against him. With no memories, he struggles to decipher which expression is polite boredom and which is muffled annoyance.

If Gwaine notices that something is awry, he keeps it to himself. His eyes flit to and from Merlin with regularity, but he keeps his expression blank. Merlin doesn’t mind as much that he can’t read Gwaine. He trusts him, expressions clear or not.

“Merlin!”

Merlin turns with a wide spin, his brows leaping up his forehead. Before him, with sweat on her cheeks, Gwen smiles at him.

“Guinevere!” He cheers, jogging quickly across the road. He gathers Gwen in his arms, lifting her feet from the ground. She giggles, gasping in outrage, and slaps his arms to be let go. Carefully, he lowers her.

“What a greeting!” She exclaims with a laugh. “You know you could have visited.”

“Could I have?” He looks up, taking in the shape of the house—this must be Gwen’s. He looks at the row of them, checking for differences. He hopes to remember it in the future.

In the doorway, a figure lingers, and Merlin stiffens. He inches closer to Gwen before the figure steps out of the shadow and Merlin relaxes.

Elyan, Gwen’s brother, raises a hand in greeting. Something complicated tugs at his expression. Merlin remembers belatedly his magic, the stories he’s heard of Gwen’s father’s death, and that he has healed Gwen from the point of death only recently.

“Sir Elyan,” Merlin greets.

A hand clasps Merlin’s shoulder. Fingers dig protectively into his shirt. “Elyan.” Gwaine repeats, voice tight.

Merlin ignores the men, turning instead to Gwen. “You must tell me how you are fairing.”

“Well,” she says, nodding. “I am well, Merlin, truly.”

Merlin reaches out, grasping her hands. He squeezes them. “That is the only way it could be,” he says, feeling it like truth in his bones. He will keep her safe. His magic flares beneath his skin, hearing the command, and Gwen’s eyes widen. His eyes must not turn gold, though, because neither Gwaine nor Elyan react.

“Where are you two headed?” Gwen asks. “It’s getting quite late, isn’t it?”

Merlin nods. “I know not. Sir Gwaine leads the way,” he confesses. “You must join us!”

Gwen’s eyes grow even larger. “Merlin at the tavern!”

“This, I have got to see.” Elyan says with a grin. His earlier trepidation seems to be dissipating.

“The tavern, then, is our destination?” Merlin turns to Gwaine with a grin.

Gwaine’s smile is soft. “It is, it seems. Would you care for a drink?”

Merlin nods eagerly. Gwen and Elyan laugh loudly. Even Gwaine’s lips twitch.

Merlin raises a brow. “I take it, I am not one to partake in drink.”

“Not amongst friends.”

Gwen begins to untie the apron around her waist, and Elyan dounces a fire. “Arthur always said you were at the tavern,” Gwen says, then pauses. She exchanges a look with her brother. “Though, I suppose now, we all know where you were on those days.”

“We do?” Merlin asks.

All three of them give him incredulous looks.

He furrows his brow. “Well? Where was I?”

Gwen huffs out a laugh. Gwaine leans in, close enough that his beard tickles at Merlin’s jaw. “Your magic, mate,” he whispers.

“Ohhh.” He had forgotten again that magic is illegal. What a ridiculous law. As if magic could be illegal.

From the unimpressed look Gwen gives him, she’d assumed as much.

“Shall we invite the others?” Elyan asks, reappearing without his chainmail.

Gwaine stiffens. Merlin glances once, but no one else seemed to notice, and he doesn’t want to call his friend out.

“Arthur is busy,” Merlin says. It might not be true—Arthur could have easily put the dragon egg away already. But Merlin feels a hitch in his breastbone at the thought of seeing him, and, really, the whole point was forgetting that mess of feelings following him, wasn’t it?

“I’ll run ahead to the gates, ask the guards there to tell Lance and Percival to join us when they return from patrol.” Elyan says.

“No Leon?” Merlin asks.

Gwaine laughs. “Sir Stick In The Mud can drink one cup of ale before he keels over, Merls. It’s not a pretty sight.”

Everyone laughs. Merlin shrugs. “I say we invite him, nevertheless.”

Elyan’s eyes soften. “I’ll inform the guards.”

Gwen tells them to wait just one moment, and she darts into the house. Elyan’s headed off to the edge of the lower town. Gwaine leans against the forge’s wall, crossing his arms.

“You’re feeling more social, then.” He says.

Merlin steps closer, leaning beside him. Their shoulders brush.

“You will be there,” Merlin says, shrugging.

Gwaine looks at him, waiting for him to continue. Merlin shrugs. That’s all there is to it, really.

Gwaine’s lips twitch. He ducks his head, pushing a lock of his hair behind his ears. When his eyes catch Merlin’s again, they’re shining, and his cheeks are red. Merlin grins, nudging him with his shoulder. Gwaine laughs and nudges him right back.

“Ready?” Gwen asks, stepping out of the house. She pulls the door shut with a click, and smiles at them both.

Merlin smiles back.

This, he thinks, is exactly what the doctor ordered.

Chapter Text

Arthur stares down at his men, feeling both a fatherly sense of disappointment and a brotherly sense of wickedness. The two feelings tug at him, and he sways, uncertain and eager all at once.

In a pile on the tavern floor, three of Camelot’s finest snore loudly, sticky with ale and sweat. Sitting on top of them cross legged, Merlin smiles demurely.

“My king,” Merlin sings, and his eyes glow gold.

Arthur startles as something hits his head. His hands fly up, and he removes the offensive weight—it is a crown made of flowers, woven together like twine.

Arthur looks at it, then at Merlin’s smiling face, then at the crown again. Sighing heavily, extremely put out, Arthur places the flower crown on his head again.

From where he’s leaning against the bar, Leon points a finger at him.

“Sire,” he says, slurring the honorific until it sounds full of at least twice as many letters. “Sorcery.”

Arthur’s eye twitches. He feels the muscle spasm and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Very good, Leon.”

Leon grins. Like a child, he tilts his head to the side, looking at Arthur with wide eyes, and attempts to sneak another drink from his cup. It spills half the way down his cheeks, dripping off his beard.

“When Lancelot came to get me,” Arthur says, walking forward swiftly to snag the cup from Leon. While he’s thinking about it, it would be best to take Gwen’s as well.

She screams in displeasure, clutching desperately around the cup, trying to pull it to her bosom, but ends up falling on to the bench and then laughs loudly. Arthur’s heart swells with annoyance and affection, perfectly intertwined.

“I did not think this was the emergency.” He finishes with a frown.

Normally, as king, a frown would be plenty to get his knights to be acting straight. But Percival, Elyan, and Gwaine are all asleep. Leon is drunk. Gwen is not a knight. And Merlin is… Floating. Merlin is floating.

“Merlin!” Arthur growls, storming forward. He pushes down on Merlin’s shoulder, which works a bit, but the second Arthur lets go, he begins to lift up again into the air.

“My king,” Merlin says again, eyes swirling with joy and gold all at once.

Arthur’s trying to be irritated, here. If Merlin could stop looking at him like that—

The door swings open.

“I sent the tavern owner home,” Lancelot says as he enters. He sees Merlin, his eyes going wide, and he quickly slams the door shut. He barricades it with his own body.

“I take it he wasn’t doing this when you came to get me,” Arthur says dryly.

Lancelot shakes his head, eyes still on Merlin. “No, sire.”

“I know the rules, your majesty!” Merlin says with such incredible insolence, Arthur actually feels a sudden kick in the gut of homesickness for the Merlin he used to know, before all this started.

He pushes that feeling down. There’s no time. He needs to… Fix this… Drunken mess. Somehow.

“What even happened here?” He doesn’t know who to ask. Lancelot, who arrived when everyone else was well into their cups? Gwen, who is giggling like a maniac in the corner? Leon, who is pretending no one can see him as he reaches behind himself to try and grab a cup from the inside of the tavern’s bar? Several cups fall down, clattering loudly, and Leon shushes them.

Merlin hiccups. Gold sparkles come out.

Arthur is being punished by the gods.

He knows it serves him right, but it still causes another precursor to a migraine to pulse behind his eyes.

Merlin stands. He wobbles, dangerously close to tipping over. Arthur reaches out on instinct, steadying him. “I waited till you were here for magic, just like you said.”

Arthur softens. How could he not? Merlin’s hands cling to his upper arm, pushing into him. Only, he doesn’t stop there. Merlin keeps moving closer, leaning like he’ll fall, and Arthur has to put some real weight behind his stance to keep them upright. Then, to Arthur’s complete surprise, Merlin nuzzles in like a cat, pressing his nose to Arthur’s throat.

Arthur lets out a sound that, if questioned, he would deny. The undignified squeak startles Gwaine awake.

He snorts loudly as he jolts, falling off the pile of bodies. Gwaine groans, long and loud, his hand going to his head.

“What the hell—” he looks up. Eyes widening, he takes in the scene around him. Gwaine flinches, eyes narrowed—but Arthur thinks that has more to do with confusion than any real emotion. His face is screwed up, like he’s somehow so drunk that the hangover has started even before the morning has even come.

“It seems, Sir Gwaine, your ambitions have finally grown. You’ve corrupted every last one of my Round Table.”

Gwaine looks around. Merlin, from his spot still attached to Arthur, waves.

“Gaius isn’t here?” Gwaine tries then promptly turns to the side and vomits.

Arthur turns away. Lancelot looks physically pained. He glances at Merlin, then finally steps away from the door. He sidesteps Gwaine, who is making some truly atrocious sounds, and kneels beside Gwen, who throws her arms around him.

Arthur shakes his head. He looks down at Merlin.

This is completely inappropriate. Merlin’s head is on his shoulder, one arm around his waist and the other bent awkwardly so he can hold onto Arthur’s cloak. He’s putting almost his whole body weight into Arthur. He has to really plant his feet to keep them both up.

“Merlin.” Arthur is aiming for something between stern and demanding, but it comes out all soft. Quiet, even. Merlin hums in response, fingers tightening in his cloak.

“My king.” He says again.

Arthur shivers. The feeling of breath against his skin caused it, but he still feels… Unmoored.

“You keep calling me that.”

“It’s what’s truest,” he says. “Like… True in my bones, you know?”

Arthur shakes his head. He doesn’t know.

Merlin frowns. He presses his forehead to Arthur’s chest, pushing hard—really hard.

“Ow!” Arthur pries Merlin away from him, scowling. “That hurt.”

Merlin’s face falls, and Arthur feels terrible. He sighs, trying to look like he wouldn’t mind if Merlin came back, but the moment is broken, and Merlin is squinting like how Gwaine was.

Arthur tries to sidestep. “Are you… Going to be sick?”

Merlin shakes his head. Then he nods. Then he shakes his head again.

Arthur looks over. Gwen is, for some inexplicable reason, sobbing. Lancelot looks bewildered. Percival and Elyan are still fast asleep. Gwaine looks miserable, which, good, this is certainly his fault. But Leon, it seems, has broken the bar. It’s cracked in two, and mead and ale are spilling everywhere. He’s trying to catch the spilling alcohol in his cloak. He looks overwhelmed.

Arthur decides that he is going to update the Knight’s Code to disallow alcohol, riots be damned. With a burgeoning headache, he turns to Merlin.

“Can your magic… Help here?”

Merlin’s eyes find his, already glowing gold. “My magic is yours to command, Arthur, you know that.”

Arthur’s stomach hurts. Or maybe that’s his heart. Or his lungs. Or his soul. Something in the center of him aches, seeing Merlin look at him like this, vow to him like that.

“Then… I ask the magic to… Fix this.”

 Merlin smiles. It’s that soft, loose, drunken smile, and Arthur realizes just before it disappears that this is the first time he’s ever seen it on Merlin’s face.

As his eyes glow brighter, Merlin holds out his hands, and the room just… Resets.

The bar isn’t broken. The vomit and dirty ale is gone. Tables are uprighted, spilled drink mopped. All in all, the tavern looks cleaner than Arthur has ever seen it.

And, too, he can see as the magic moves its way through his knights. Leon straightens, eyes widening in horror. Gwaine’s head falls back, a bright, happy laugh coming straight from the gut. Percival and Elyan wake in confusion, but no pain. And Gwen leans back, blinking rapidly, her face going pinker and pinker as she realizes what’s happening.

Arthur turns, at last, to look at Merlin. His expression is clearer, his eyes less glassy. As the gold fades from them, Arthur sees the amusement settle there.

“My king,” he says again, all cheek.

Arthur finally feels like he’s on solid ground. He rolls his eyes, shoving Merlin lightly, and Merlin laughs.

“You four,” he says, turning to his knights. “Are going to pay for this.”

Merlin laughs loudly, delighted.

Arthur turns to him with a smirk. “What makes you think you’re getting out of this one?”

The laughter drains, until only Lancelot and Arthur are the ones grinning. Oh yes. All his men are going to suffer for this one. Merlin included.

***

Arthur laughs loudly as Merlin scowls at him.

“This isn’t even fair!” Merlin complains loudly, lifting an arm as Lancelot and Gwaine help him into the chainmail. “I’m not a knight!”

Cautious of the audience around them, Arthur still can’t help but lean in and tease him. “Somehow, I don’t think you’ll be in danger, Merlin.”

Merlin sticks his tongue out. Arthur lets out a peel of laughter.

For his knights, he had them run a truly tremendous amount of laps around the castle grounds, take overnight shifts, and, for Leon, who is meant to be the best of all his knights, train with some of the worst recruits they have this year.

For Gwen, he kissed her kindly on her knuckles and asked her to please consider a chaperone next time. After which, she hit him on the side of his head—terrible influences, his knights, and hence why she needs the chaperone.

Merlin, of course, is harder to punish. But being forced to play knight? His Merlin would have hated this. And, it seems, memories are not needed for him to have the same reaction.

“So the plan is—” Leon starts, ever so seriously.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Run fast. I got it, mate.”

Behind him, there’s a few soft sounds of surprise—even a few chuckles. Arthur regrets how big of a campaign is here with him, but there’s not much he can do. Caerleon’s men have at the border for weeks now, and as much as Arthur wants to avoid any controversy so early into his reign, he can’t just ignore that the other kingdom’s colors are on the invaders.

Hopefully, the situation will be dealt with swiftly and simply. Arthur believes there is a chance that the invaders are using Caerleon’s colors just to trick others into giving in more easily. If these are just rogue bandits, he can be done with the whole situation and back in Camelot before the week’s end.

He and the other men get into place. He gives Merlin a clap on the shoulder, a grin, and then, with a laugh, a shove. Merlin scowls, but it lasts less than a second before he’s grinning and running off.

Arthur shakes his head, watching as Merlin disappears around the bend. Though something squeezes tight at his chest with worry, he knows that Merlin will be okay. His magic is something of a miracle, at least as far as Arthur’s hair not going gray is concerned. Before, months ago, Arthur would spend hours of his life worrying about his servant. Now, at least, the worry is mitigated to clean up instead of immediate death.

Additionally, though Arthur is loathe to admit it, the man is fast. He’s gone, a blur of red, before Arthur would have made it half as far.

“Sire. I… There is a matter of certain delicacy I would like to discuss.”

His uncle’s voice is right on the line of respect, and Arthur knows that it is on purpose how close he rides. He inclines his head to show that he heard him.

Agravaine continues, “Is it really wise, sire, to send a… Servant… on such an important mission?”

“Merlin’s loyalty is undeniable,” he says on rote. He’s found himself defending his servant so many times, to so many nobles, that he can speak in his defense without even really hearing what the complaint is. Loyalty has always been enough to quell anyone’s concerns.

And, too, it’s enough this time that Agravaine nods quietly. His uncle still appears unhappy. It’s surprising. Agravaine’s never been one to expel much care for servants.

“Without doubt,” Agravaine says. “But he is… Still just a servant.”

Around him, the men are listening. Some are being blatant—like Gwaine, who glares daggers—while others are more respectful, like Sir Thomas, who’s ears are practically perked, but is nevertheless pretending to sharpen his sword.

Arthur fights down a heat that’s curling up his throat. A king should not be embarrassed.

“Merlin’s the right man for this job.” Arthur says, hoping his voice has that note of finality that his father was always so effortless at.

From the way Agravaine frowns, it’s not quite as impactful as Uther.

Before he can be faced with that, Arthur turns to the men. “Get in place.” Then, a bit petty, he adds, “Merlin will make quick work of luring our enemies. Let’s not waste his effort.”

At the end, it is almost too easy.

Merlin shoots into the exact right spot, spinning around. Before he does, Arthur can see the wink he shoots in Arthur’s direction.

The invaders are there instantly. The leader—one whose appearance is far too familiar—grins.

“Trapped, are we?” he mocks.

But Merlin just offers a cocky grin. “That’s the idea.”

Arthur takes that as his cue—he shoots forward with a loud “On me!” and leaps into the pit.

The fight is almost laughable. This army was a serious threat against Camelot’s borders. Against Arthur’s chosen men, it’s over before anyone can even be seriously harmed or injured. Arthur’s barely breathless. It’s honestly a little disappointing.

The knights start gathering the invaders, set out on tasks that were already discussed. Arthur is left with a few moments to himself, which is rare post-battle. He searches the crowd for Merlin, wanting to make sure he’s okay—even though, of course, he knows that he is.

Arthur shakes off his muscles, using the edge of his cape to swipe the sweat off his brow. He spies Merlin across the pit, helping bandage one of the invaders. He means to go there, when a low whistle catches his attention.

He turns, surprised to see the delight on his uncle’s face.

“Your Majesty. Look what we have here.”

Arthur feels a flash of annoyance. It’s like Agravaine knows when Arthur is trying to talk to Merlin. His father was always the same way—interrupting just at the moment Arthur had decided to go do something just for him.

He blinks a bit at the thought, pushing it aside. He shouldn’t be thinking that—not about his father nor his uncle. Not about Merlin being for him. “He comes with us.” Arthur decides quickly. “We'll deal with the prisoners when we get back to Camelot.

He wants that to be the end of it, but Agravaine shakes his head. “I fear this is no ordinary prisoner, Your Highness.” Agravaine rips the necklace from Caerleon's neck and hands it to Arthur.

Surprise shoots through Arthur, cold like fear. “Well, well.”

“What is it?” Merlin’s by his side in an instant, a blink so fast it could’ve been magic if Arthur wasn’t certain Merlin was being careful.

Arthur feels the sigil in his hand, dread and anger and bitterness all pooling in him like still water. “This, Merlin, is the royal crest of Caerleon. Is it not...Your Highness?”

Arthur feels the surprise going through his troops. Worse, he feels the fury going through the prisoners.

This is exactly what he was hoping to avoid. Out of all the emotions, dread wins out.

“Take him to a tent of his own,” Arthur commands. Agravaine’s face falls, his brows furrowing, but then Leon grabs Caerleon by the shoulders, leading him away, and Arthur is finally able to breathe.

The continue setting up the tents, building camp, dealing with the wounded. By the time Agravaine manages to corner him again, it’s near dark.

Arthur sighs, already knowing what his uncle wants to discuss. He sits on a fallen log near the fire, gesturing for his uncle to join him.

After a beat, Arthur starts. “This is not the first time he's trespassed on our lands.”

“No, sire.” Agravaine agrees. “Only last week he seized the village of Stonedown on the western borders.”

“We're not on the borders now, Agravaine. This is the heart of the kingdom. He took a grave risk coming here.”

There is a pause. Arthur’s eyes turn from the flames to his uncle, a question on his own face. Agravaine tilts his head.

“Perhaps he doesn't see it that way. I fear it's no coincidence that all this has happened since Uther's death.”

There it is again. Dread and anger and bitterness “What do you mean?”

“Arthur, your father was a strong king. His enemies feared and respected that strength.”

It hurts. And it’s… It’s awful how much it hurts that it hurts. “Are you saying I'm not worthy of that respect?”

“No, sire, not at all.” He’s quick to reply, but Arthur isn’t sure he believes it. “There isn't a citizen of Camelot who would not lay down their life for you. But your enemies...to the enemies of Camelot, you are still untested as a king. You must send a clear message that any action against Camelot will be met without mercy.”

Arthur inclines his head. “Did we not achieve that here today?”

“No, sire. Not enough.”

The way it’s said, so firm, without question, without anything—it makes Arthur’s heart squeeze.

As if he can tell, Merlin appears just in Arthur’s peripheral. He’s cooking, something that he’s surprisingly has gotten better at since his memory issues. But from the tightness in his jaw and the sharpness in his gaze, Arthur knows that Merlin is listening.

Agravaine continues, and Arthur struggles to listen. “Not enough to deter the likes of Odin and Bayard and the countless others who covet Camelot's wealth.”

That, at least, grabs him. “Well, what do you suggest?”

“I suggest... I suggest that we force him to accept a treaty on our terms. He must withdraw his men from our land, return our territories to us. He must surrender Everwick.”

Arthur scoffs. “He'd rather die than agree to such terms.”

Agravaine nods. “Then you are left with no choice.”

“I can't just kill a man in cold blood.”

“Arthur, you must do what you need to do to assert your authority on this land.”

He shakes his head. Certain. “Well, there must be another way.”

“There's no other way. Think on it. Decide by tomorrow.”

Agravaine claps him on the shoulder, squeezing once. He leaves, heading for his own tent, and Arthur fights against every instinct he has to keep himself sitting straight and not slumped over, head in his hands.

He really, really wanted this to be bandits.

“Arthur...” Merlin trails off.

Not even Merlin can help in this moment. Arthur shakes his head. “Not now, Merlin.”

***

The next morning is awful. Arthur has barely slept, he and Merlin had… Disagreed, if not legitimately fought. And Arthur doesn’t like it—he has never had a problem in the past, but this Merlin, this powerful Merlin, who has suffered and sacrificed for him—he looks like a kicked puppy when Arthur so much as raises his voice. It’s like the very first memory he forgot was how to hide his expression. And then that makes Arthur realize that all those other times, it wasn’t that Merlin didn’t care, it was just that he was hiding it, so really, Arthur has been a cruel and undeserving friend for far longer than he even realized and—

He's spiraling.

He doesn’t even realize it until he hears his uncle’s voice, loud and clear, in the middle of the forest:

“Then you will pay, with your life!”

From where he’s being held like he might strike, King Caerleon scoffs. “And who makes these terms?”

You’re making a mistake, Arthur. A voice says.

He doesn’t want to think about whose it sounds like. What’s worse? If it’s his? Or if it’s Merlin’s?

“Arthur Pendragon...” He says, because he has to. “King of Camelot.”

Caerleon pushes Leon's arm aside and steps forward.

“Very well. Then make it quick!”

Caerleon kneels.

Arthur hates this. He hates how defiant Caerleon looks. How strong. He looks like a king.

And Arthur… He chances a glance over. His uncle nods, proud. Merlin, over his shoulder, looks furious.

Arthur turns back, steel now, because that’s the only cover for how close he is to breaking.

But then… His eyes flicker up again. Merlin shakes his head.

He could try… One more time…

“Think what you're doing, Caerleon.” Arthur implores. “This treaty could seal a truce between us. There would be peace. Like there was between your father and mine.”

If anything, this makes Caerleon angrier. “I am not my father, and you are not Uther! Do you really have the guts to kill me?”

Dread, dread, dread. Like being tugged at by the inside of his bones. He hardens again. “You leave me no choice.”

“You do not choose anything, boy. It is I who choose to die, and I alone. Now, get on with it.” Caerleon bows his head down to Arthur to give him clear aim at his neck.

Arthur is about to do it. He really, really is. His sword is heavy in his hand, but his grip is firm, and his intent is clear. He tests the words in his mouth—so be it—and then—

“Emrys was right.” Caerleon says with venom, spitting on the dirt, head still hung with as much pride as the pose could offer. “Camelot will be the end of us all.”

And just like that, the king stays the execution.

Chapter Text

Merlin wrings his hands, his heart in his throat like a pulse.

Arthur paces the small space of the king’s tent, his hands alternating as he tugs at his hair. He’s pulling the blond strands straight up. With the sweat in his hair now drying, the hair sticks up in unfortunate little puffs. Merlin’s fingers itch with the urge to smooth the hair down.

“So,” he says, voice cracking. Six heads snap up, eyes narrowing on him.

Elyan, Percival, Gwaine, Leon, Lancelot, and Arthur all wait.

Merlin feels… Small. And getting smaller by the second. He shrinks, feeling awkward and nervous.

“I didn’t actually say anything about Camelot!”

Arthur’s head snaps to him again—and when did he look away?—so fast that Merlin literally hears it.

Leon freezes. Gwaine’s hand falls almost imperceptivity closer to his sword.

“What do you mean?” Percival asks, face scrunched in confusion. Lancelot is pale—dour, which is a bad look on him, and Elyan’s eyes are flickering back and forth between each knight individually, like he might parse out information that way.

“I’m Emrys,” Merlin explains at the same time Arthur says, “Nothing.”

The tent is stiff with Arthur’s anger. He storms to Merlin, grabbing him by the ear, and pulls him to the other side of the tent.

It’s a tent, it’s not like it gives them much space! Merlin slaps at Arthur’s hand, not even wilting at his king’s furious expression.

“Why would you say that?” He hisses, eyes sharp and narrow.

Merlin’s brow furrows. “I—Emrys! It’s my druid name, right? That’s what Gaius said—"

“Shut up.” There’s no levity in the words like usual. It’s hard, like an open palm slapped on a table. “Just shut the hell up right now.”

Merlin’s mouth snaps shut without thought. Something in his stomach sours, and he shoves his tongue to the roof of his mouth in a desperate attempt to keep his stinging eyes at bay.

“Arthur, I—"

Arthur’s expression hardens. “You can’t just say whatever idiotic things come to mind first, you fool!” He snaps.

“Arthur.” Lancelot’s voice is sharp, and it stills the king long enough for Merlin to take a wide step back. His hands shake when he looks down, squeezing his eyes into thin slits, and so he folds them behind his back, clasping them together to try to hide the tremors. Merlin isn’t… He’s… Well, scared isn’t the right word. But Arthur’s anger is hard to stand straight against. The way he’d looked at Merlin just a moment ago… It was almost…

Mean, his mind supplies.

He bristles against it, but, yes, mean is what he was.

Merlin knows that he’s known Arthur for years longer than the few weeks he actually remembers. But he never thought that Arthur could be mean to him. Even when Merlin was the reason his father died, Arthur had treated him kindly.

This new reaction—is it new? Was Arhtur always like this? Was it his big sacrifice or his accident or his unfamiliarity that stayed Arthur’s tone this past month?—rankles uncomfortably against Merlin like sandpaper.

Then he pauses.

What, in fact, is sandpaper?

He comes back to himself. Arthur and Lancelot are still staring at each other.

Leon, however, is staring at him.

Merlin forces his chin up a little higher. He knows that his eyes are still wet, probably visually, but there’s nothing he can do about his reaction to Arthur’s words. He’s hurt. It’s like a fist in his chest. But he can at least maintain his pride, if not his dignity.

“The druids call me Emrys,” Merlin says, voice unshaking. Arthur growls, a hand on the back of his neck, but Merlin ignores it. His King may command him, but he does not own Merlin—nor his truth, even if Merlin barely knows it himself. “Don’t ask me why,” he adds wryly.

Gwaine hums. “I’ve heard of Emrys. Powerful guy, according to some.”

Percival and Elyan exchange an uneasy look. “But… But you’ve never spoken to Caerleon, right?” Elyan asks.

Merlin shakes his head. Then pauses.

Elyan shakes his head, too. “It doesn’t make sense. It was as if he’d spoken to this Emrys himself.”

“I think I’d remember if I spoke to a rivaling king recently,” Merlin says sarcastically, throwing his hands up. God. He said he didn’t do it!

There’s a beat of contemplation. Then five pairs of eyes snap to him, some widening and others narrowing.

Arthur grabs him hard by the arm, throwing him with a remarkable strength. The sudden force of it sends Merlin stumbling, his breath caught in his throat. His first reaction is heartbreak, followed by fear, and then… Confusion.

Arthur’s feet are planted firmly, his shoulders broad. Arthur, he realizes, has put himself between Merlin and his knights.

“Do not say a word, Sir Leon.” Arthur growls, that same, angry tone.

Leon’s jaw tightens. A beat. And then: “It must be considered, sire—”

“Do not think to question my judgement as your king.”

It’s a proclamation. An order.

Merlin’s organs feel like jello. Then a bright light shines right in his eyes, sharp and painful, and he cries out in pain. He grabs at his skull, wincing, and when he opens his eyes, Arthur has whirled around, looking at him with panic. The light has receded.

Merlin’s shaky from the pain, even as it recedes. “What the fuck is jello?” He asks.

***

The night passes without incident. King Caerleon does not say but a word—“No,” when asked if he would like supper—and though Agravaine again tries to persuade Arthur to commit cold blooded murder, the king refuses.

Merlin breathes easier after that. He doesn’t know how to explain how much it matters that Arthur doesn’t just go around assassinating people who don’t sign his treaties. It should be pretty obvious just with that one sentence, but for some reason, people here think it’s a reasonable response. Merlin wonders if just a few weeks ago, he would have thought it reasonable, too.

Arthur allows him to sleep on his bedroll within the king’s tent, as he had planned, but not a word is spared between the two. Merlin sleeps fitfully, waking up frequently with a start, the edge of a dream that he can’t remember on the tip of his tongue. By morning, Arthur looks just as angry, and Merlin, just as wounded.

Merlin’s trying very, very hard to not be humiliated by that.

Agravaine comes by the tent not long after Arthur breaks his fast. Merlin stiffens, still unable to be at ease with Arthur’s uncle. Then, as if he could tell, Arthur barks an order for Merlin to leave them be.

It stings. Merlin, for the first time, feels like he truly is Arthur’s servant.

He slips from the canvas tent, the cool morning air a lone comfort after such a dismissal. The camp is bustling. Servants flit around with jobs, knights alternate from joking and training, and prisoners sit with scowls, chained together with long iron rope.

Merlin feels a bit uneasy about all of it. Of course, he understands that some of these people have been ransacking Camelot, burning villages, and, even, killing its citizens. It’s just… Hard, he supposes. To see men shackled like beasts.

He looks away, queasy. Again, he finds his hands folding together. He wrings them.

Across the camp, beyond the still smoldering fire, King Caerleon sits with his jaw tight, his back ramrod straight. For a brief moment, Merlin is reminded of Arthur—he, too, would maintain this pride if he was in an enemy camp.

It softens Merlin to Caerleon, just enough to get his feet moving. Maybe there’s a legitimate reason to explain all of this. He walks tentative at first, growing more confident as he gets closer.

It isn’t until the very last second, when Merlin is but a foot away, that Caerleon looks up.

“I told your masters, boy, I won’t eat whatever vile slop Camelot deigns to serve.”

Merlin’s brows raise at that. “You just let Cook hear you say that.”

Caerleon’s face twitches, the look of surprise brief but there. Merlin clings to it, to the hope that he can just solve this issue before Arthur is forced into a corner.

“What would you have done?” He asks, sitting down on the dirt beside Caerleon. Caerleon flinches at that, but Merlin ignores him, just folding his legs together. “If you were in King Arthur’s place.”

Caerleon sneers. “I would not be in that position because I am not a weak king.”

Merlin’s blood heats all at once, like being dipped in flames. “Do not speak about my king that way,” he snaps.

Caerleon raises a brow. “Loyalty. A rare sight in a servant.”

“Perhaps when the servant must be loyal to you,” Merlin replies. He regrets it, knowing Arthur would reprimand him for speaking so carelessly, but Caerleon just snorts.

“Your master lets you speak this way?” He asks, leaning back. For the first time, his posture relaxes a little.

Merlin isn’t sure if nodding or shaking his head is better, so he just shrugs. “Humor me. What should King Arthur have done when you push your men into his borders, closer to the heart of his kingdom? What would you have done?”

Caerleon doesn’t answer. His jaw leaps and he looks away.

Merlin pushes on, though, desperate now. “Perhaps the treaty was overzealous, but what would you do different?”

Caerleon turns to Merlin again. This time, his expression is a bit more open. Contemplative. He leans in, eyes flickering across Merlin’s face. “When my Queen hears what you’ve done to me, she and Emrys will rain hell on Camelot.”

Merlin’s throat feels tight. He swallows past it. “How… How did Emrys end up allying with you, then?”

Caerleon bristles. “What do you know of Emrys, boy?”

Merlin bites back all the sarcastic words that exist within him. Truly, Arthur would be proud.

“I know that Emrys has powerful magic… I know that Emrys is meant to support the Once and Future King.”

To Merlin’s surprise, Caerleon smirks. He shakes his head. “You have learned fairy tales, boy. Not truth.”

“Truth?”

“Emrys doesn’t just have magic. He is magic. And he won’t support the Once and Future King—he will make him.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if you play your cards right, boy, you can be the loyal servant to the real King of Albion.” Caerleon grins, leaning in. “Me.”

Merlin’s heart stops.

For a moment, he feels a burst of anger. He’s being lied to – Gaius and Lancelot, they’ve told him that he’s Emrys. They’ve told him that he’s got a destiny.

Then he feels confused. Because why would anyone lie about that? And he does know the magic inside of him. It’s strong. Ancient, even, some may say. He knows what it feels like.

Maybe… Maybe there’s someone out there stronger than him.

Maybe there’s two Emryses.

Maybe someone is impersonating him.

Maybe he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on because he has no fucking memories.

“Merlin!” Arthur’s voice is sharp. Angry. He stiffens, unable to help himself, and turns to Arthur like muscle memory. He’s off the ground and halfway to Arthur’s side before he’s even really registered it.

“Arth—Hey!” Merlin scrambles, but Arthur has a firm grip on his neck. He squeezes hard, using the pressure to drag Merlin away. He ends up letting go while still dragging, and the momentum makes him stumble forward a bit. Merlin’s hands slam out in front of him, catching on a tree, as he steadies. His hands sting.

He swirls. “What was that for!”

“What was that for!?” Arthur repeats, sounding incredulous. “What are you doing, sitting beside  Caerleon?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Better yet, what are you doing talking to Caerleon at all?”

Merlin feels off-kilter. He’s on the wrong foot. He’s some other metaphor that explains how confused he is by everything right now.

“I am trying to prevent you from making a colossal mistake, you—you—dollophead!”

Arthur’s face is bright pink, bordering on red. His eyes are so blue against the flush that he looks like ice. His jaw is sharp. He looks dangerous. Lethal, even.

“You have never understood your place, Merlin.” Arthur hisses the words, his voice quiet but sharp.

Merlin’s brows furrow, his heart in his throat again, his palms still stinging from the wood that splintered his skin.

Arthur continues, his eyes growing wider and bluer. “There’s a decorum you’re meant to be following. There’s—hierarchy. There’s manners. There’s—you have always spoken out of turn. You have never given me the deference or the respect or the—My father was right. My father should have never put you in my service to begin with!”

“Arthur…”

“You have lied to me. For years and years and years, you’ve lied to me!” He reaches out suddenly, his hands flat on Merlin’s chest, and he shoves. Pushes him. It’s not much. Merlin leans back on the balls of his feet, able to catch himself, but it burns, knowing Arthur’s lashing out like this.

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to stop this—it’s like water out of a spout, pouring out of Arthur, the words and the anger and, worse, the hurt. Merlin aches, and Arthur aches, and he doesn’t know how to staunch this wound.

“You have spent years mocking me. Belittling me. Undermining me! Magic,” he hisses the word in a whisper. “In my home. In the heart of Camelot. Magic that you’ve used, I’m sure, to stay my hand and make my choices and run my kingdom. And to lie to me. To let me—to make me think—And I never knew. I never knew what you really—the contempt you must have felt for me, Merlin, truly, it’s a master display of your ability to act.”

Merlin’s not sure what they’re even talking about anymore. “Arthur, I don’t—I don’t—I have never felt contempt for you.”

“But you wouldn’t know, would you?” He snaps back, fast as he can. “That’s just one more thing you took from me. You took my trust, you took my—my—and, you took my ability to even confront you about this, because you’re standing there, useless! You’re useless, Merlin, and I—”

“Sire.”

Arthur’s mouth shuts with a loud, audible click. He turns away from Merlin. His cape swishes.

“We’re taking Caerleon along with the rest of the men back to Camelot.” He orders, words like blades. “Pack up. Now.”

“Yes, sire.” Leon’s voice. Not too alarmed, so Arthur’s voice must have been quiet. By the end, it had felt booming to Merlin. Surround sound, his mind supplies, and the sudden bright pain of it is at least something that at least makes Merlin realize he needs to breathe.

He inhales, shaky, and he stands there, numb, confused. He can’t move. It’s like his feet have grown roots to the ground. It isn’t until nearly everyone is loaded up, on their horse or cart or ready to walk, and Merlin is still standing there, that Lancelot finds him.

“Merlin?” His voice is tender. “Are you alright?”

He wants to tell Lancelot what just happened. He wants to ask for forgiveness. He wants to ask what the hell he did before he lost his memories.

His eyes cut over to search for Arthur. His King has already climbed his horse, far in the front of the line, though, so Merlin’s eyes first land on Caerleon. Hands tied together, feet wound in iron, sitting stoic on a cart meant for animals.

As if he can tell, he looks up. And he winks.

Merlin feels ill. He looks away, offers Lancelot a shaky smile, and nods.

“Let’s go.” He says. He’s actually quite proud of how steady his voice came out.

Still, it’s not that steady, so Lancelot walks with him, step for step, and hovers like a new mum while Merlin climbs on top of his horse.

The entire ride back to Camelot, Arthur doesn’t look back once.

Chapter Text

In the fewest possible words with the clearest possible diction: Arthur is an ass.

The minute he returns to Camelot, closing the heavy wooden door of his chambers that has always felt like a shield, he collapses on the floor itself. Sweaty, blood-stained, miserable. He pulls his legs to his chest, pressing his forehead against his knees, wrapping his arms around his shins like twine around wrapped, raw meat. He doesn’t weep, doesn’t sob, doesn’t even cry; he doesn’t know how. Merlin was always the one who let him feel that.

And he’d done a real, royal job of ensuring Merlin won’t do that again.

By the time he pries himself off the floor, stumbling just far enough to fall a second time, but this time landing in a chair, hours have passed.

He can still feel the anger from the campgrounds simmering beneath his skin. It’s like how his muscles ache after a good fight. Even if he’s tired and not particularly eager to get back on the field, he can feel the sing of his soreness. He feels that now. In his throat, in his thighs, in his chest. He aches from the fight.

He didn’t even look at Merlin once when they came back to Camelot.

God, what kind of king is he? What kind of master? What kind of friend?

“I think I’d remember if I spoke to a rivaling king recently,” Merlin had said.

Except, quite famously, he wouldn’t.

Merlin didn’t remember anything right now. Anything useful, that is.

Arthur has been trying—trying so hard. Trying harder than he ever has. To be patient, to be kind, to be trusting. And he has. He let Merlin, without any of his memories, without any of his care for Arthur, do magic. And not just any magic—magic on the King! On his father! He lost his father because of Merlin’s magic, and he did not blame him. Did not cast him aside. Did not betray—

Merlin didn’t betray Arthur.

He doesn’t think.

Neither of them think…

But, of course, neither of them can know.

The reality of it sours in his gut, rancid and boiled from the sun. He closes his eyes, sees flashes of dark hair, but it’s green eyes, not blue—a sister he’s lost, a sister who would slay him today if given the chance—

Betrayal is unlike anything Arthur has ever felt.

And Merlin has betrayed him.

It’s just not possible to know in which other ways that might be true.

What about friendship? Merlin had said, his eyes so bright, brighter than any sunshine sky.

I won’t be burdened by a day that ends with us alive together, he had sworn, his voice gentle like an early summer breeze.

And then, Of course I was. Arthur had told him that he was not born for him… That Merlin did not owe Arthur a damn thing. That Arthur should’ve meant nothing to him, nothing more than an employer, than a monarch, than a brother-in-arms—You weren’t born for me, Merlin. And then, heartbroken, Of course I was.

Arthur scrubs his hands down his face. He can’t keep thinking in circles.

Merlin’s gone.

Merlin’s gone, Merlin’s gone, Merlin’s gone. His Merlin. He’s been fighting it, as long as he can, but it’s true, isn’t it? It’s true that Merlin—He doesn’t remember him. Not their fight in the streets, the first time Arthur had felt his blood sing with something he hadn’t even been able to name back then. Not the way they’d looked at each other, words spilled like the feather-tips of white dandelions on that beach, a cup of poison between them. Not staying his hand, gaze as strong as any iron, from killing his father in cold blood after Morgause’s tricks. Not when Arthur had been lost, so lost, and Merlin’s voice had done that terrible thing, that thing where it goes low and steady and warm like bread straight from the fire, and told him a tale of magic swords, and Arthur had reclaimed his kingdom, and Merlin was why. Merlin doesn’t know he was why. Did Merlin ever know he was why? Does Merlin know why?

Why? Why? Why?

Arthur is sick.

Arthur is sick to his stomach, and it takes a rolling moment for him to realize that he’s not being hyperbolic, he’s not being dramatic, he is, truly, sick to his stomach.

He makes it to the antechamber just in time. When he throws up into the chamber pot, it’s acidic and painful, his stomach clenching like fingers digging into flesh, already empty because he hadn’t been able to stomach but a mouthful for close to two days. He wretches, and when he’s done, finally, finally, his eyes sting with tears.

He leans his forehead against the cool stone.

Merlin’s gone from him.

But what’s worse, what’s so unfathomably worse, is that Arthur is certain he never had Merlin in the first place.

***

The next morning, it’s George who wakes him.

It’s George who brings him breakfast, who helps him dress, who parrots dutifully a schedule Arthur already knows by heart. Arthur lets him, ricocheting between irritated that Merlin didn’t show up and grateful that Arthur doesn’t have to face him right now.

When he leaves his chambers, he’s immediately accosted by Leon.

“Sire,” his first knight says, because that is who is talking. Not Leon, who slipped him his first tankard of ale, who tells jokes under his breath so sharply that Arthur’s always left gasping for air. No, this is the first knight of Camelot.

As always, it’s only Merlin who can recognize when Arthur needs his friend.

Ashamed of his unfair and unkind thought, Arthur tries to give Leon a smile. It doesn’t come out right—doesn’t feel right, and, based off Leon’s grimace, doesn’t look right, either.

“Sir Leon. Walk with me to council.”

“Yes, sire.”

The halls are busy today. There’s a heaviness to the air, a jitteriness. Arthur’s momentarily certain it’s because of him, because of him and Merlin, before he remembers the visiting king he has stashed in the dungeons.

Dread pools in his stomach. Yet another thing he will mess up.

“Sire, about Merlin—”

“Leon.” Arthur closes his eyes. “Now isn’t a good time.”

“But sir, I don’t—if he was—”

“Leon.” Arthur grabs Leon by the elbow, dragging him into an enclave. A passing servant raises an eyebrow before averting her gaze to the ground, and Arthur’s cheeks heat.

“Arthur,” Leon pleads. “We must consider—”

“I cannot.” He doesn’t mean to sound so… So…

Childish.

Heartbroken.

“Don’t you understand, Leon? Doesn’t anyone understand? I cannot—I cannot even fathom this, because if I do, if I do stop and—and—and—consider—this…”

I’ll die.

He stops the words, swallowing them hard and fast like one of Gaius’s bitter potions.

But one of Arthur’s many failings has always been his expressive face. He never could learn to wear his heart like stone the way his father had. All of this bleeds out of him, and Leon sees it.

It’s shameful. It’s humiliating. It’s eating him alive.

“Very well, sire,” Leon says softly. “But know I will always be on your side.”

If in a better headspace, Arthur would appreciate such a vow. As it is, all he can do is swallow again, and think, I never thought there’d be a time when being on my side didn’t mean being on Merlin’s.

Arthur continues on his journey to the council. He needs to convene with his advisors, to think through the implications of what he’s done. Already, Caerleon being here is risking war. Should his queen decide she is tired of waiting on her king’s return, he could have an army at his doorstep.

Would his father truly have killed him? Agravaine knew his father for a long time. And certainly, his father’s firm, bludgeoning hand has solved many problems with such an action. But…

This felt…

Like a mistake.

Arthur would laugh, if it was funny, about how his inner voice sounds so much like Merlin.

The council is already waiting when Arthur arrives. He beats down his desire to sigh, to complain, to whine and moan, and he nods to his men. Agravaine’s eyes track him before shooting behind his shoulder. Arthur wonders if he’s noticed Merlin’s absence. Merlin and his uncle are cordial, but there’s a frostiness between them for sure that makes Arthur want to protect the fact that he and Merlin are fighting.

If that’s what’s happening.

It’s hard to say.

Is Arthur in a fight? How childish, if he is. How devastating, if he’s not. He doesn’t know what to do with all of this. This… Swirling. This confusion.

He’s so angry at Merlin. For the years of lying. For the deception. For letting Arthur think that there was something between them, something real, something like brotherhood and friendship and yet so much more, too. For letting Arthur feel known, understood, cared for, only to have all of that… Well, if not untrue, then unmoored. Because Arthur thought he knew Merlin, too. He thought he understood him. Cared for him. But he didn’t, not really, because Merlin’s whole life has been hidden from him…

Arthur breathes out so harshly through his nose, it makes a sound.

He tries to cover it by clearing his throat.

Stop thinking of Merlin, he chides himself, lowering himself into his seat. He needs to focus. There’s war brewing. That has to take precedence.

“Sire, I once again implore you to think of the implications of keeping Caerleon locked in your dungeons,” Agravaine starts, his voice commanding in a way that makes Arthur feel like a child. His uncle has always had that effect on him, he supposes. Often, it’s a promising thing. Today, though, he resents it.

“No harsher of consequence than killing him, as you recommended, Uncle.”

Agravaine raises a brow. The corner of his lips twist up then down again, before he smooths out his expression. He’s getting used to court, it seems.

“I believe a show of strength will show your people, and his, that you are not to be trifled with.” Agravaine continues. “To keep him alive gives his queen a chance to lay siege for him.”

“Or,” Gaius interrupts, his eyes only on Arthur. “To give you a second chance at the peace treaty.”

Arthur inclines his head. “Queen Annis.”

“Yes, sire,” Gaius nods his head. “If you present Queen Annis with terms that include her husband’s well-being and safety, perhaps, an accord can be struck.”

“And perhaps, Caerleon will rage war against Camelot the same night he is unshackled!” Agravaine insists.

Arthur rather wishes he could just let these two men duke it out alone, but unfortunately, he must preside over this whole abysmal thing.

“I daresay Annis is unlikely to feel differently than Caerleon,” Geoffrey says slowly, lifting his glasses as he peers up from the documents he’s been reading. Arthur narrows his eyes, reading, and realizes it’s the peace treaty.

“You agree with Agravaine then?”

Geoffrey’s lips slip together, a thin line. “Not entirely, sire. Only that as it stands, this treaty does very little for their people.”

Arthur does not squirm.

He knows the treaty unjust. It would behoove Camelot greatly. But Caerleon… Their people will not gain, and in fact, lose, much.

“And then, there is the matter of Emrys,” Geoffrey continues.

Agravaine perks up again. “Yet another reason to demonstrate power, sire. Emrys is no friend of Camelot.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow at the sure tone. “What do you know of Emrys, Uncle?”

Agravaine pauses.

Not just his words, but his face, too. His eyes. He’s thinking, Arthur realizes.

He sighs heavily. “Speak freely, Uncle,” Arthur encourages gently. “There is no harm from me if you know of magic.”

If the council only knew what Arthur was okay with now…

Or, if not okay with, okay with shoving into a deep, buried part of himself, unwilling to examine until he’s had more than two days in a row without an emergency…

“Emrys is a powerful sorcerer who would topple Camelot over as soon as he would kill us all,” Agravaine says gravely. Then, shrugging, he adds, “At least, that is what I have heard.”

Beside him, Leon is stiff.

Gwaine, Percival, and Lancelot, all currently in attendance, are doing a much better job than Leon and Arthur at remaining unaffected by these words.

It’s just…

It’s preposterous.

Because Merlin is Emrys. He knows that. By the gods, he saw the man stop time like he was lighting a candlestick. There cannot be a magic more powerful than Merlin’s, because if there is, Arthur’s father would have been smited down decades ago.

He jolts a little at the thought, and forces himself back into this moment.

“It is curious that Caerleon seems to think himself allied with a powerful sorcerer,” Arthur says, leaning back while stroking his chin contemplatively. “Yet not even one rescue attempt has been made.”

The council murmurs at that.

Agravaine, persistent as ever, is unmoved. “Perhaps Emrys is waiting until the night—all the more reason to act now.”

Various voices, including a few lords who usually only deign to speak when it’s about feasts and taxes, offer their insight. Arthur is unimpressed with the Emrys threat, of course, which he knows reads too much like his father’s overconfidence for some. Even Geoffrey, who keeps opinion to himself when not backed staunchly with fact, raises his voice.

It goes on for well over an hour.

One or two people are swayed, but at the end of it all, almost everyone remains firmly in the opinion they walked into council with.

Arthur, regrettably, has not come to a decision at all.

“That’s enough,” he says with a sigh. His head is pulsing. He lifts a finger, glancing at Gaius. Gaius nods his understanding. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow. I will consider all that has been said.”

Gaius hovers, waiting until all but Gwaine and Lancelot have left the room. The two are talking to each other in hushed whispers, and Arthur’s head hurts too much for him to care.

“Gaius, tell me, do you have any of that glorious headache medicine to spare?” He gives Gaius a dazzling smile, one that worked when he was a child and begging for more dessert.

As he was twenty-odd years ago, Gaius is unimpressed, and raises a brow.

“Yes, sire, of course.” He digs into his robes, pulling out several velvet bags that clink together like glass.

Arthur frowns. “Do you always carry medicine around like this?”

Gaius gives him another one of his signature looks, which is to say, glares at him.

“When my apprentice is being worked night and day, and I must deliver all the castle’s medicine myself, then yes.”

Arthur frowns. “Who is working Merlin night and day now?”

Gaius pauses. “Why… You?”

Arthur scoffs. “I haven’t seen him since we returned to Camelot, Gaius.” Actually, before then, because Arthur refused to look at him. “So whatever excuses he’s given you, they’ve nothing to do with me.”

Gaius’s bushy brows meet in the middle. “He’s given me no such excuses… I only assumed…”

Arthur briefly contemplates ignoring this. Ah, Merlin, and his unexplained, inconvenient absences. Familiar territory.

Except, Arthur knows more now than he ever did before.

Merlin wasn’t just frolicking in a field or drinking in a tavern all those times before, was he? Likely, he was doing something awful, stupid, brave, risky, and lying about it, to him and likely to Gaius too, if Arthur knew him. (He thinks he does…)

So he can’t ignore it.

Dread clamps at his stomach like food poisoning.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Arthur dips closer, hoping to hide his voice.

It’s of no avail. Lancelot and Gwaine are already inching closer.

“I… Yesterday morning, when you all arrived back. But then, I was busy with patients, and he must have slipped out. I thought – Well, sire, I assumed, with his typical workload…”

Arthur looks at Gwaine and Lancelot, knowing the answer before he even asks it. “Have either of you seen him?”

“Not since we arrived at the city gates,” Gwaine says, voice low and miserable.

Lancelot’s shaking his head, too.

Arthur groans loudly.

Gaius gives him a consolidatory look. “Sire, Merlin always has his reasons. And he always comes back.”

“In one piece?” Lancelot asks wryly.

Arthur feels sick. “I don’t have time for this. I—I have to deal with Caerleon.”

“It’s been not quite a day, sire, Merlin very well could have come home late last night and left again before I woke this morning.” Though the words are comforting, there’s a look in Gaius’s eye that Arthur feels is in his own.

“I’ll ask around,” Lancelot offers. Gwaine immediately volunteers to help.

“If you find him—” Arthur cuts off. What is there to say? What does he want to happen? “Just… Let me know.”

Lancelot nods. The sympathy on his face makes Arthur want to take it back.

“I’ve… I’ll… Just report to me. Dismissed.” It’s brusque, which is embarrassing in its own right, and not even Gwaine says something about it, which is humiliating. But then the room is blessedly finally empty, and Arthur falls backwards, landing halfway on the chair, forcing him to throw a hand out to catch himself.

Gods, he’s going to be sick again. He can feel his breakfast heavy in his gut, and he has to breathe heavy like a child to keep it all down.

He feels young, he feels stupid, he feels foolish.

You idiot, he thinks harshly, and this time it’s not Merlin’s voice, it could never be Merlin’s voice, it’s only his, his and his father’s, his and the way he imagines his mother’s voice, his own, his own, his own, because he knows what his voice sounds like to say that, to mean that…

Arthur thinks about the night in Ealdor, laying in Merlin’s childhood bed, feeling the warmth that came not from body heat or fire or blankets, but from something else entirely—from Merlin’s voice, saying, soft as air, I just didn't fit in anymore. I wanted to find somewhere that I did. And Arthur’s voice, which he felt like air trapped in his lungs while underwater, Had any luck? And Arthur was a fool, a stupid, stupid, young, foolish fool, because that was years ago, wasn’t it? Years and years, longer in how it felt than what it really was, but long in both all the same, and Arthur had thought, so surely, so confidently, that yes, Merlin had found a place where he fit in. And Arthur had found a place he fit in, too. Because together, the pair of them, Arthur and Merlin, Merlin and Arthur, they fit there. They fit snug together, like two halves of a whole, like matching gloves, like anything less dramatic and childish and—

Arthur tugs at his hair hard enough to make him gasp and his eyes sting. He centers himself in that, in the pain.

What awful, miserable, horrible little thing is Merlin off doing now?

And how is Arthur ever supposed to trust him, if he keeps lying about it?

Chapter Text

Merlin sticks the landing when he falls.

It’s actually pretty impressive.

At first, he was just trying to stroll through the woods to clear his head. He’s got a few empty pouches in his pack, as well as a little sheet of paper that he’s hastily drawn some herbs and plants on to identify. Gaius had mentioned a few days ago that he was growing low, and then, after his time with Arthur at camp, he was sure that Gaius was nearly out. So, since Merlin was pretty sure Arthur wouldn’t want to see him for the whole day, he thought he might as well make himself useful.

Only, things had quickly gotten a bit out of control.

First, Merlin hadn’t been able to find any of the herbs he’d written down. Or, if he did find them, he didn’t recognize them. He ended up pulling a lot of what he thinks may just be garlic scapes, which he is fairly certain Gaius won’t be able to use. The inability to get even this right, an errand that a child should be able to do, had really rocked him. Merlin’s whole life feels like a barely scabbed over wound right now, and each time he fails—which, he is forced to admit, is constantly—it scratches at the closing until fresh blood spills out. Merlin feels wrung out, like he’d been crying for days, just without any of the relief that comes from actually letting the emotion out.

Second, Merlin had tripped and twisted his ankle. The pain was spectacular, something so sharp and mind-blowing that he momentarily forgot that his ankle had ever not hurt. He’d laid on the ground for a while, bone and skin screaming, and he’d thought a lot about how stupid he was. Foolish, that’s what Arthur said. Idiot, he’d also said. And, yes, that must be true. Because Arthur knows him better than anyone. And he’s here, with nothing but garlic scapes and a twisted ankle, useless, useless, useless—

Then, when Merlin finally managed to get up, using just a long branch as a walking stick, he’d stumbled—quite literally—into bandits.

One minute, the forest was quiet and perfectly safe – the next, bandits, fucking everywhere.

Last time Merlin saw bandits, they were actually royals and knights. The time before that, he’d stopped them with barely a thought. Neither of those things seem pretty likely right now, though, so Merlin saw a dozen men barreling at him at full speed, saw that he was on the edge of a not-so-steep cliff, and dove.

This is the part where he sticks the landing.

He lets out a delighted, surprised laugh. How he managed to do that when he tripped over nothing a half hour prior, he has no idea. But he stuck the landing, the pain radiating up his hurt ankle pretty minimal all things considered, and he’s proud of that.

Finally, something he did right.

He watches as the bandits above scatter, swords drawn. One guy points and another grabs his mace, swinging it wildly—Merlin has a half-formed burst of panic, torn straight from his chest, about being hit by a mace just like that one, from a man who looks just like that.

Pain, sharp as being plunged under cold water—

Rocks sliding, magic swelling like coughs in his lungs—

Arthur’s face, twisted in agony, his name screamed and echoing—

And Merlin jolts back into himself. His hand automatically raises to his chest, where that pain was radiating from, and he stumbles as if almost asleep.

Above him, one of the bandits pulls out a bow and arrow, and, phantom pain or no, that’s Merlin’s cue.

He spins around on his heel, ready to run as fast as his broken ankle will allow—

Instead, he sees a beautiful ghost, her red-wine lips twisting into a smile.

“Look who we have here,” she says in bright delight, her green eyes growing wide.

Merlin cocks his head. “Have we—”

Before the word met can come out, the woman raises her wrist, green flashes to gold, and Merlin passes out.

***

When Merlin wakes up, he wishes he hadn’t.

Everything hurts. From the twisted ankle that is now definitely broken to the wound on his head—and, hey, when did he get that!?—Merlin is aching. He shifts, stretching, and then realizes he can’t. His hands are bound behind him, thick cuffs nearly cutting off circulation. He looks around, weakly, and there’s a cuff around his waist, too, made of thick gray iron. It’s attached to a chain that—Merlin’s head falls back, eyes going up—yep, attaches to the ceiling of this—

And, that’s a good question. Where the hell is he?

Merlin looks around. He doesn’t recognize this place. It smells faintly of home. He sees dried herbs hanging on a wall, a small cauldron of what smells like soup in the corner. This is not as poignant or fresh as Gaius’s chambers, but many of the scents are the same. It’s almost comforting, if Merlin doesn’t think about how he’s been knocked out and brought here and chained here and—

“You’re awake.” A voice behind him says.

Merlin shoots forward, feet scrambling beneath him. He tries to spin, but there’s not much room on this chain. All he can do is sort of twist.

Thankfully, the person walks around him, stopping when she’s dead center in his gaze.

It’s the same woman from before.

Well. Great.

“Uh, hi.” He offers.

“Good morning.”

That almost makes Merlin smile. “Is it?”

The woman looks back pleasantly. “Oh, don't be like that. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

For a moment, Merlin lets himself imagine this is all a big misunderstanding. Maybe this is his friend and this is an elaborate joke.

Then she continues, “After all, I haven't seen you since you condemned my sister to a slow and painful death, thwarted my plans to take over Camelot, and forced me to live in a hovel.”

Uh.

Merlin’s baffled. He cocks his head. “Are you sure that was me?”

Her hand snaps up like a whip. The gold in her eyes is too fast to prepare for, then a spark lights up against Merlin’s forearm. It hurts, pain like rope singeing into his skin. He careens away from it the best he can, letting out a harsh, high pitched sound. A second one joins in, and Merlin realizes it’s her laugh.

Genuinely, what the fuck?

Merlin decides enough his enough. He doesn’t give a fuck what Arthur or Gaius or Lancelot or any of those guys say. Merlin’s got magic and he’s not going to be tortured by a spinster in an ugly cobweb dress.

Merlin reaches for it, deep inside of himself. He usually can just think and then, boom, there’s the thing he wants to happen. But lately—well, since that night in the tent, really, his magic has been further away. Sent with its tail between its legs, really, just like Merlin.

Merlin’s magic is Arthur’s, too, in a way that feels faintly codependent and confusing—but it’s true. Arthur’s rejection had hurt it, in its own way, separate from how it hurt Merlin.

But it’s still his. His first, his always—so he calls on it, and feels that gorgeous, beautiful, hopeful swell inside of himself—

And it fizzles on connection with his skin.

Merlin’s eyes widen. His breath comes out in greater waves of panic. He tries again—nothing. Again, again, again, again—he’s panting heavily by the time he accepts it. He doesn’t have access to his magic here.

He has no idea what’s stopping him. Is it her, this woman? Can she be the reason he has no magic? Is this Emrys, the imposter? Or, hell, is this Emrys for real, and he’s the imposter? Like, fuck, dude, he didn’t mean to imposter a magic-stopping god or whatever, he hadn’t even heard of it—

His head heats up. Literally, it’s like his brain turns up like a stove—

A stove—

A stove—

Fuck, dude—

A stove, fuck, dude—

The light is too bright, the sounds too loud—Merlin can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t speak, he can’t do magic—he’s stuck, there, hot in the head, what does fuck mean? What does dude mean? What is a stove? Why does he know these words? What does it mean? What does it mean? What does it—

“Stop panicking.” The woman snaps, her arms folding petulantly across her chest. “I’ve not given you anything to panic about yet.” A sinister smile stretches her lips.

Merlin focuses on her. On her kohl lined eyes. On her fury, the kind that radiates through pores. It seeps in the air. Merlin may not be able to touch his magic, but he can certainly feel hers.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says, clearly pleased to have his attention.

Merlin swallows roughly. It helps a bit. The light in the space is a bit duller. He can see her again, the real shape of her. It helps.

“Oh yeah?” He quips. She brightens. It’s a pretty frightening image, a delighted evil witch, but it also is better than the pain searing through his head as words he shouldn’t know or images that haven’t happened start to claw at him.

“What am I doing with cold iron, the very thing that could hold my magic back?” She waves a hand, and the chains jangle. “They’re not for you,” she says dismissively. Merlin’s flooded with relief. Explanations make things less scary. “They’re for Emrys.”

Well, fuck.

Merlin’s throat hurts. He wonders if it’s terribly outrageous to ask his kidnapper for a cup of tea.

“We—” He clears his throat. “We’ve been looking for the man who calls himself Emrys, too.”

The woman cocks her head. “As if you and King Arthur could find a powerful sorcerer like Emrys. Emrys and I are the same. We will be united, and Camelot will fall.”

“And that’s why you’ve decided to chain him up?” Merlin asks, and then his stomach falls. He never did learn to keep quiet.

As predicted, the woman reacts with vitriol—she snaps a hand up again, and that whip-like sensation burns across Merlin’s chest. He cries out, and she nods.

“You, Merlin, you know nothing of magic, and what my people will do to ensure that you and yours all burn.”

As terrifying as it is, the woman’s words just… Give Merlin pause.

Merlin furrows his brow. The way this woman is speaking… He tries hard as he can to conjure a memory of her. He’s been told not to do this—not to press. Gaius himself has been absolutely lethal with that raised brow when Merlin so much as discusses a thing he doesn’t remember. Not to mention, two minutes ago when Merlin was trapped in a thought-spiral that had claws, because clearly there’s something powerful at play trying to keep his memories and confusing knowledge down.

And yet, Gaius isn’t here, searching a woman’s unreadable expression. And claws, schmaws, really.

“I—I’m sorry.” He starts, but stops quickly when she lets out a loud, bitter laugh.

“Sorry?” She repeats mockingly. “One would think it’s a bit too late for that, wouldn’t they, Merlin?”

Merlin swallows. “I couldn’t say.”

“You couldn’t say!?”

She storms forward quickly, hand raised. Merlin cringes, imagining her magic knocking him unconscious again. But he needn’t have worried—instead, her long pale fingers curve, and she slots his neck between them, squeezing hard.

Merlin gargles. She tightens her grip, and then he can’t do that.

Her eyes are blazing. There’s no other word for it, Merlin thinks a bit wildly, his bound hands spasming, his nails scratching his own skin open. His feet kick pointlessly at the ground as he tries to scramble away. The woman’s eyes are blazing, alight, full of flames. Green, though. No magic.

Whatever it is between them, it is personal.

As quick as she’d begun strangling him, the woman drops him.

Merlin gasps loudly, his lungs rattling alongside his pulse, and he wishes his hands could raise to his throat, to feel the sensitive skin there. He tucks his chin against his chest, as if that’ll help anything, and tries to breathe. Tears prick at his eyes, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do but let them fall.

If anything, this makes the woman angrier. She sneers before she turns away.

“Your tears won’t help you now, Merlin,” she says.

The way she says it solidifies something in Merlin. With a trembling gut, he knows that she hates him.

Merlin has never been hated before.

Or, well, maybe he has. But all of Merlin’s life experience is smushed up into just a handful of weeks, and he’s been surrounded by people who love him.

All at once, he misses Camelot. He misses his friends. It has been terrible, hard, to be surrounded by people who know him, who love him, who miss him when he’s standing right there in front of him. It’s worse by so much more to be looked at by someone who hates him.

He thinks of Arthur, of his anger at the camp ground—of his flash of disgust—of everything that Merlin has seen across the man’s face. He thought—

Well, Merlin knows that Arthur doesn’t hate him. Not really, not truly—Not like this woman does.

Gaius, in Merlin’s mind, warns him against it. But Merlin is chained, and his magic is scattered, and he’s scared, and he’s out of options.

The truth, it seems, is all he’s got left.

“I—” His first attempt at speaking goes horribly. The word comes out squeaky and breathy at the same time; utterly wrong. Utterly impossible. His throat spasms, and a humiliating, near-sob sound falls free. He swallows hard, tasting sharp like blood, and tries again. “What’s your name?”

The woman pauses. Slowly, her head turns. A scowl is on her face, but then—briefly—surprise colors her face. Her brows rise, her lips part, and her eyes narrow.

Merlin tries to school his expression. He fails. Whatever she sees grabs her attention. As she spins fast, the mass of long black tangles falls over her shoulder. She surges forward, moving fast enough that she looks like she’s gliding. Her fingers pinch at his chin.

“Something’s wrong with you,” she says slowly, her eyes raking down his skin like nails. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”

“You were a bit distracted,” Merlin says helpfully. “What with kidnapping and beating me.”

A slow smirk tugs at her lips. Satisfied, then, at hurting him.

“Tell me,” she says slowly. “Or I will show you what I am truly capable of.”

Merlin’s stomach swirls. Squirms. Screams. But now, Gaius’s warning seems stronger—more important. He regrets having said anything, having tipped his hand at all. He shakes his head, and the woman’s magic flares again, twice more, but Merlin doesn’t budge, even as sweat pricks at his forehead and under his arms, and he would swear he feels real blood dripping down his sides.

“Strong little pain tolerance,” she mutters, almost to herself. She turns to the cauldron, stirring it, glancing over at him contemplatively. Then she brings him a cup.

“What’s this?” Merlin knows better than to accept food from strangers.

But the woman doesn’t give him a choice. She slips her fingers into his hair, tugging his head back, and her eyes glow gold as she pours the soup down his throat. He gargles and gags, but she throws the cup and grabs his throat, and between her hands and her magic, Merlin ends up swallowing the soup.

It was…

“Chicken?” He asks, panting.

She nods. “My dinner. You’re welcome.”

Merlin’s… Confused.

He says so. She smirks.

“Tell me why you didn’t recognize me,” she demands again.

Merlin rolls his eyes. If she thinks a bit of soup is going to make him spill the beans—

But his mouth opens. “My memories are gone.” And the truth comes out.

It’s not his deepest secret—but it is enough to make him feel vulnerable, flayed raw.

Why did he say that? He didn’t—He didn’t—

His eyes dart to the soup and to the woman. “A truth spell?” he gasps.

She smiles demurely. Merlin flinches, already expecting her to attack again.

She doesn’t conjure her magic to hurt him again, though. She just steps back. She grabs a chair from the small table and drags it against the stone floor, a terrible screeching line all the way to Merlin. She sits in front of him.

Merlin, tied by the waist and with his hands bound, can’t sit. He sighs.

“You know, I could kill you right this second.” She muses.

Merlin tilts his head. “You could buy me dinner first,” he replies wryly.

“You have never known your place, Merlin.”

The words trigger something inside of him—a flash of Arthur’s hurt, sweaty face, a shield in his arms, the same words lashing out—and then it’s gone.

It unsettles Merlin, though. Unmoors him.

She notices.

“Oh, poor lost little lamb,” she mocks. “So confused, all alone. “Tell me, Merlin, how did you lose your memories?”

Merlin wants to fight against it. He does. He clenches his eyes shut, hands in fists behind his back, and he tries. He feels his magic in his belly, flaring, trying to help—

“I sacrificed them to close the door to the other side,” comes out between grit teeth anyway.

The woman’s eyes grow wide—then, they narrow into sharp pinpricks. “You ruined my sister’s sacrifice,” she hisses.

And suddenly, knowledge settles on Merlin.

“Morgana,” he says, and the woman—Morgana—tilts her head in acknowledgement.

“Seems your little keepers told you some things, then,” she says, and the way her voice is pitched now, low and sharp like knives, makes Merlin realize just how downright friendly she had been being before. He has to plant his feet hard on the ground to keep from instinctively scrambling back.

The next question throws him. “Why are you so loyal to Arthur?”

Merlin doesn’t even have time to try to couch his answer or think through this spell. Words, words deep from his gut, come out so fast, he wonders if he’s the one to say them. “I don't expect you to understand, Morgana. You have no sense of duty, no sense of loyalty.”

“You're wrong. Don't think I don't understand loyalty just because I've got no one left to be loyal to.”

Merlin feels a flash of guilt. Did he kill her sister? He doesn’t have a sister, he doesn’t think. But Gwen is sort of like one. He imagines if anyone hurt her, he’d also move to a scary little hovel and torture people responsible. He supposes that it’s a reasonable reaction, if that is what’s happening here.

But Morgana isn’t done asking him questions, so he doesn’t get a chance to ask her his.

“Did they tell you what you did to me?”

Merlin’s throat dries. He shakes his head.

“No? Well, of course they wouldn’t. Do they even know what you did, Merlin? How you betrayed me? How you poured poison down my throat? A truth spell—you are lucky I do not slice your throat where you stand!” She’s screaming by the end, and half the items in the room are levitating. The magic in the air is thick, heavy, fog like smoke from a fire, choking all the same, and Merlin feels weak, he feels hurt, he feels guilty, he feels—

Morgana moves toward him, slick like a snake in the grass. The chair topples over behind her, and she grabs Merlin again, hands on his face, fingernails digging in.

“Why, Merlin? Why did you do that to me?”

“I—I don’t—I don’t know!”

“Yes, you do, tell me!”

“I don’t know!”

“Tell me, right now, you are under my spell, you tell me, why! Why!” Her eyes are gold, and Merlin’s insides are twisting, twitching, gravel and stone and cement, and concrete and here and now and then and there and later and forever and—

“Arthur!” He screams, and then Morgana’s eyes glow as bright as the sun, or maybe that’s the whole world, and the sunlight glistens off a long, thick silver stripe—

And Morgana stabs him, straight in the heart, screaming as her magic unleashes lashes across his body.

Everything stills.

Well, not everything. Merlin twitches, blood oozing in soft, grunting waves, as Morgana, sweating but composed, pulls the blade out of his chest. A sound like air through a tunnel fills the cabin. Morgana sneers at him, and Merlin blinks.

He opens his mouth, but then he can’t say anything, his mouth his full—he’s drooling, spiting, he thinks, no, that’s blood.

Morgana sighs heavily. She reaches up, and then Merlin collapses on the ground, the chain holding him coming down with him and smacking him in the face. He twitches and grunts at the pain, even as his lungs wheeze. His vision goes darker, first around the edges, then towards the center.

The last thing he sees before he dies is Morgana, carefully lifting up a jar and sighing. “What a pity. I suppose I’ll need someone else for you beauties.”

Chapter Text

The day bleeds away like a forgotten scrape on the back of his neck. It’s a prickling sensation, one that he fights the urge to swat at when sweat drips, but that is altogether easy enough to ignore until suddenly, dusk has fallen, and the wound itches with fever.

Arthur’s head snaps up as a quick, familiar rapt on his door echoes in his empty room. His stomach lurches, which could as easily be fear as it is hunger, and he stands so quickly, papers fall off his desk.

He darts down to grab them, but he’s not fast enough. Gwen enters his chambers, a dinner tray in her hands, and Arthur’s still kneeling.

She manages a wry, unimpressed stare while curtseying and maneuvering the door with her hip all at once. Guinevere, he is reminded, is truly a spectacular woman.

“Arthur,” she chides in that effortless way of hers. Arthur quickly stacks his papers back on his desk and moves through the room in long strides. He arrives just as Gwen is taking the steaming plate off the tray and setting it in front of his preferred seat.

“Guinevere,” he greets. He has not even had to fake the pleasure in his voice. Seeing her, as always, is a balm in its own right.

It has been too long since he has seen Gwen like this, in the soft evening with candlelight turning the soft brown of her curls a little brighter. She glances up at him from below her lashes, a little shyly, and he knows she’s thinking of how long it has been as well.

“It is good to see you, my lord,” she murmurs.

He’s unable to stop himself from reaching out. There’s no describing the comfort that he feels as he brushes just one curl off her cheek and behind shoulder. Just to be this close to Gwen, for a moment, eases him as nothing else in his life does anymore.

There used to be a time when others could make him feel like this, too. Training with the knights, pleasing his father, or achieving something that put that look on Merlin’s face, the soft, doughy one, the one that made Arthur feel like he was a hundred feet tall all did the trick. But it’s been a long time since Arthur has trained with the knights in a way that won new respect, having long ago proven himself to his men. His father is gone, and besides that, was gone for a lot longer before. And Merlin…

Things with Merlin are not as they once were. Or, in clearer terms, things with Merlin were never what Arthur thought.

Only Gwen’s comfort remains. A part of him wants to be bold, be brave, be reckless—he wants to lift his palm until his fingers brush hers, and, if she was willing, intertwine them, curved together, wrists touching, pulses beating all at once. He thinks if he could hold Guinevere’s hand, he would no longer ache in this way.

Gwen sets the empty goblet beside his plate and steps away to grab the jug of wine on the far end of the table. Arthur’s fingers twitch, stretching out, and he shoves both his hands behind his back before she turns to him again.

Gwen is not an answer to his mood. Arthur knows this. Even if there is something between them, something true and bright, it is not real, at least not yet. She is not his, even if he secretly likes to think of himself as hers. And, beyond that, he is not blind. He has seen how she has grown closer to Lancelot. Any affection that still remains between Gwen and he is not something he should be pressing. He is her king; and, worse, he is her friend. He cannot ask more than he knows she wishes to give.

And, if he’s honest with himself, all the way honest, the way he is only when the firelight is low and the taste of deep liquor is caramelizing beneath his tongue, he knows that the comfort he craves from Guinevere in this moment is not honorable. It is to soothe away a heartache. It is selfish. It is not fair, even if she would want to offer it to him. So he will keep his hands, and his heart, to himself, at least for one more night.

Gwen finishes pouring his wine, glancing up at him. Surprise flickers across her face and then she lets out a light laugh.

“Oh, Arthur,” she says, smiling sweetly. She reaches up and presses a hand to his chest. Just like that. As if it meant nothing—as if it cost her nothing. Arthur feels a war of confliction inside of him; the emotion that wins is jealousy, he thinks.

“What?” He asks, swallowing the gruffness he knows is in his voice.

Gwen shakes her head. “It’s as if you went through a thousand emotions in the span of the time it took me to get that wine!” She teases.

Arthur cracks a smile, half-wry and half-embarrassed. “Perceptive as always, Guinevere.”

“Is it this mess with Caerleon?” She asks, folding a napkin into small squares.

Arthur frowns. He is an awful king, isn’t he? He has once again forgotten all about the diplomatic nightmare and pending war. He’s too caught up in his own feelings. About his manservant, for god’s sake.

“You don’t have to say,” Gwen offers kindly. She reaches out and grabs Arthur’s hand, squeezing once. Arthur’s heart flares—and then falls. As he feared, though it is nice, it does not soothe his heartache. “But you should eat, sire. You need your strength.”

Arthur’s stomach rolls. “I am not hungry.”

Gwen’s eyes narrow. Though she remains kind, her sweet expression tightens. “Arthur Pendragon, you will not waste another meal. Don’t think I didn’t hear about breakfast and lunch. Sit.”

Arthur sits.

“Yes, my queen,” he jokes.

Gwen rolls her eyes. “Merlin calls me that, you know.” And then Gwen makes a face. “As if I would ever be Queen of Camelot.”

Arthur’s chest hurts again. He tries to smile at her when her eyes widen and she looks at him with horror.

“Arthur, I didn’t—I mean, that is, I wouldn’t—it isn’t that—oh, of course I care—”

Arthur reaches out, no thought this time. He covers her hand with his and smiles. He thinks it only comes off a littlepathetic.

“Sit and eat with me, Gwen,” he invites.

Relief is almost tangible on Gwen’s face. She slides into the chair beside him smoothly. He begins to unload his plate, splitting it into two.

“Oh, sire, I couldn’t—”

“You could and you will,” he interrupts. “Besides, I’m used to it. Merlin would take twice as much and leave me with scraps, the insolent fool.”

Though the words are teasing and Gwen laughs, Arthur’s belly pinches. He shouldn’t be calling Merlin a fool. He never should have said that in the first place. He can still hear his own voice—his father’s voice—hurling insults at Merlin, can still see the way his face had fallen, like a child. It kills Arthur. It also feels entirely out of his control.

“Where is Merlin?” Gwen asks, tentatively taking a bite. “Not that I’m not happy to help where I can, of course, and you are always so busy, so it’s a treat to see you. Not that you shouldn’t be busy! You are the king, after all, and—” She takes a deep breath and then tears a piece of bread off her roll. “Where’s Merlin?”

Any appetite Gwen’s ranting could have worked up dies instantly. Arthur swallows tightly.

“I’m… I’m not sure,” he admits.

Gwen nods. “Ah, Gaius has him busy, then? I heard there was a cold outbreak in the lower town, but thankfully, Elyan and I haven’t caught it. Of course, we’re always up here, at the castle, so—”

“No. I mean, I don’t know where he is.” Arthur’s throat hurts. “I mean he’s missing.”

Gwen freezes. “Missing?”

“Yes. Gaius hasn’t seen him since yesterday morning.”

“I—I—Why did no one tell me!?” Gwen exclaims, shoving the plate away.

“I’m sorry, Gwen, there just wasn’t much to tell—He could just be off. You know Merlin. He’s always running off, the fool, getting drunk or—”

“Arthur!”

He freezes.

Gwen’s eyes blaze at him. If the shade was different, he would think her capable of magic right now, there’s so much fire in her gaze. Before, she was gently scolding him. Now, she’s furious.

Arthur feels about an inch tall.

“Why would you speak of him like that?” She demands, her expression partway to confused.

Arthur does feel guilty. He himself had scolded his own thoughts earlier in very much the same way. But with Gwen glaring at him, it is hard to admit his faults. It always has been.

“I just mean, he’s gotten himself in and out of trouble before.”

“And so that means we don’t owe him our concern?” Gwen responds, quick as a snake’s tongue. Arthur remembers, all at once, how close she and Morgana used to be.

“I didn’t say that.”

“So why are you here, instead of out there looking for him?” Gwen asks.

Arthur licks his lips. He shrugs. “I sent Gwaine and Lancelot—”

“They volunteered, I’d say.”

He inclines his head as if to say yes.

“Why wouldn’t you be alongside them, then?” She shakes her head. “I’m asking, Arthur, I don’t—he’s your friend.”

“He’ll be fine,” Arthur tries to comfort Gwen.

But Gwen hardens even more at his words. Slowly, she shakes her head again and again. Arthur has never seen her do this before. When she speaks again, it is with tremendous care. “After all we know he’s done for you, all he’s sacrificed—”

“And what is that?” Arthur interrupts. Gwen’s glare hardens, but he’s not done. “No, Guinevere, truly, what is it? What has he done? Because all I know is that my best friend has spent years lying to me, has a power that none of us can even begin to fathom, has betrayed my kingdom’s laws in favor of his own decrees—and we have our assumptions. We have coincidences. We have faith. We think Merlin is on our side. We think Emrys isn’t out to destroy Camelot, with our enemies agreeing otherwise! We have bodies we can’t explain, we have magic that brings Druids to their knees! You speak of sacrifice. You speak of action! What do you know that I do not? What is it,” and now, Arthur’s voice is loud—he realizes, absently, as if he’s not really here, that he’s yelling. “What is it that you know, Guinevere? Not believe, not hope, not guess; what of Merlin’s past do you know?”

Guinevere is quiet. She looks at him for a long moment. Arthur’s ears are full. They buzz. He can feel his pulse in the tips of his fingers. He can feel his heart in the soles of his feet.

Slowly, Gwen places her napkin on her plate, covering the uneaten food. She stands.

“What I know,” she says as she smooths down her skirt. “Is that Merlin is my best friend.”

He opens his mouth, but Gwen holds up a hand. Queen Guinevere, he thinks a bit deliriously as he instinctively falls silent.

“You called him your best friend.” She shakes her head. Did he? Did he really? “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say it. We all know of course, but you’ve never admitted it to me. I doubt you’ve admitted it to him.”

Arthur’s sick again. He regrets the few bites of dinner he’s had. Gwen leans in, her eyes searching his. “But listen to me, Arthur. You are not his best friend.”

It’s harder than any blow he’s ever been delivered. It’s as if his lungs have been shoved so hard, they’re outside his body, below him.

But Gwen isn’t done.

“I know you care for him. Of course I know that. I advocate for you, Arthur! I tell him to trust you, to care for you, to believe in you, because the gods know that he loves you. He is your best friend, but you mean more than that to him, and we both know it. But you… You can’t even offer him the benefit of the doubt when it is hard.”

Arthur swells. With anger. With remorse. With fear.

“I have!” He denies. “I found out he has magic, and I did nothing!”

“Then why are you in here now? Why don’t you care that he’s missing? That he could be hurt?”

“He’s a powerful sorcerer, Gwen, I think Merlin can handle whatever mess he made!” Arthur says sarcastically.  

Gwen glowers at him. “You’re angry with him. Because he lied? Because we both know why he did that, even if he can’t say for certain why!”

“A king can’t be seen searching for his servant!” Arthur exclaims, regretting the words instantly.

Gwen recoils. “You would risk his life to protect your pride?”

And Arthur shrinks. He wonders what is smaller than an inch. That is how tall he feels.

“You may care for him more than you do any of us,” Gwen says, and she’s softening, but her words still feel like blades. “You may very well, Arthur, and I see that, I do. But you sit here, calling him a fool, believing the worst in him, not believing in your own heart to tell you what you know. I’ve told you before, Arthur: Saying something means nothing if your actions betray you!”

“Guinevere,” he pleads.

“When he knew nothing, he knew you,” Gwen says softly. She walks to him slow and Arthur trembles. She places a hand on his cheek, and though he is shaking and afraid, he leans into it. “And I know you care for him. But when will you forgive him for not being who you thought he was?”

Arthur can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe, or he won’t breathe, like Gwen said, whichever it may be, it doesn’t matter, because he can’t feel air in his lungs, and—

There’s a scream outside. Arthur and Gwen leap in surprise, but before either can do anything about it, the doors to his chambers fling open.

“Arthur!” Gwaine exclaims, and his voice is wretched, is destroyed, and Arthur’s dread feels like fingers curled around his throat before he’s even got his vision to focus.

Lancelot surges forward. “Lady Guinevere, no, don’t look—” He grabs for Gwen, entirely improprer, yanking her to his chest, uncaring—

Gwaine stands in the doorway, Arthur’s two large chamber doors flung open. Beside him, Lancelot has Gwen in a protective hold, as if arrows are sweeping from all sides. Behind them in the corridor are weeping servants and trembling guardsmen.

And Arthur slams to his knees.

Because in Gwaine’s arms, stiff and shaded a bloodless pale, is Merlin’s corpse.

Chapter Text

When Arthur was six summers old, he killed a bird.

He’d slipped from the castle, deftly escaping his nannies and guards. He’d gone slow, slow like he’d seen spiders sneak from one edge of the room to the other. And then, once he was outside that castle wall, tall green grass stretching up almost to his shoulders, Arthur had run.

He ran hard and fast, faster than he’d ever run during training. His knees squeaked and creaked with the effort, the thin muscles of his thighs stretching like cheese. He remembers his elbow hitting his ribcage from the way he’d been sprinting. It’d bruised. He’d touched it later, sour and sore, for weeks while he healed.

He’d been running so fast, laughing and happy and for once, for once, not the prince. No father to disappoint, no tutor to enrage, no nanny to fear. Just Arthur and the tall, tall grass.

He’d loved that grass. It was sticky and scratchy and real. Real like the castle walls weren’t. It came from the dirt and the grime and the worms and it was just the same, just the same, as all the other little boys in the kingdom. Arthur may have walls made of stone and servants and rules and no friends and no mother and no father—

But the grass was the same. Same as everyone. He loved the grass there.

Then he heard a crack.

He’d ran so fast, so blindly, that he’d stepped right on a little bird. It was small, small as Arthur’s six year old hands. He’d fallen down, crouched low right beside the bird. Arthur knew this bird. Wel, not this bird—not specifically, he didn’t think. But he knew it was a small falcon. A lady hawk, he thought at the time. A girl’s bird. He’d studied it for hunting. These birds were used to hunt others. Useful, the esmerillon. That was what it was called in French. For Arthur, the bird was called a merlin.

Its white chest was moving rapidly, up and down, but sideways somehow. Its eyes darted. It had gray feathers, darker near the bottom. Yellow feet. Yellow, too, at the top of its beak and surrounding its dark black eyes.

Yellow, or, in some light, like the light that day, in the grass, gold.

Arthur had apologized. He’d lifted the small thing, saying sorry again and again, and he tried to comfort it, pressing his fingers to its beak and the forehead that was smaller than his fingernail. He’d tried, he’d tried, but the bird had died. The bird had died.

His guards had found him right there, crying over the corpse of a little bird. He’d begged to bury it, but the guards were angry and his father was waiting. He’d only just had enough time to place it gently back on the ground to let the grass swallow it. The grass, he hoped, would keep the bird safe when he couldn’t.

His father had been so furious. Arthur hadn’t escaped without escort ever again, he doesn’t think. Not until that day Merlin drank that poison, and Arthur had to once again sneak away. He hadn’t thought of the bird that day, his horse galloping right over the grass he’d once escaped to. His thoughts had been too preoccupied.

Nearly twenty years had passed. Still, Arthur remembers the bird with gold eyes dying in his hands.

As he slams to his knees, he wonders if his freedom will always come at the cost of a killed merlin.

Because freedom is what he feels.

Seeing Merlin, dead, dead, dead, eyes open, glassy, milky, dead, dead, dead, Arthur feels free. Free of his anger. Free of his hurt. Of confusion, of bitterness, of dread, of betrayal. He is free of his father’s voice in his ears and his people’s command of his time. He is free of everything—Except grief.

Gwaine walks closer. In Arthur’s peripheral, he can see Gwen wretch from Lancelot’s grip. He can see his guards watching him with horror. He can see Gwaine’s tear-streaked face, hardening second by second by second.

Will Gwaine slay him now? Will he use his sword or a smaller blade? If he blames Arthur half as much as Arthur blames himself, Gwaine will have to use his bare hands.

“Your bed,” Gwaine says.

Arthur doesn’t understand. Gwaine is close enough now that Arthur’s head has to fall back to see him. Merlin’s hand falls from where it was resting on his still stomach. It falls, his hand dangling right in front of Arthur’s face.

Unthinking, Arthur reaches for it. Like he did only minutes ago with Guinevere, Arthur intertwines his fingers with Merlin’s. Its stiff and cold. Arthur’s stomach flips and flips and flips.

“I’m setting him on the bed, Arthur,” Gwaine explains. He keeps walking. Arthur can hear Gwaine, but he can’tunderstand him. All he knows is that Merlin’s moving—and Arthur lets out a sound, angry and afraid like an animal dying, and he scrambles forward to follow Merlin. Only he’s on his knees, and he’s got one hand intertwined with Merlin’s, and he feels like he could throw up.

Gwaine pauses. When he looks at him, something finally breaks through Arthur’s haze: pity.

Why should he be looking at Arthur like that? Arthur is the one who did this. Arthur—

He wonders if he should abdicate first, before he kills himself.

The thought startles Arthur back into himself. He remembers another time, another fraught moment with Merlin. Ages ago, weeks, or something in between, where ghosts were haunting his people, and Merlin had spat those very words at him. That he wanted to die. Arthur had been floored. He’d been upset. Blasphemy, he’d called it. And he thinks he had meant it then.

But Merlin’s hand is so cold. And how could Arthur live one day without his best friend?

He doesn’t say what Guinevere said. He is Merlin’s best friend. Merlin is his. His best friend, his—his—his—Just his. Merlin is his.

Merlin was his.

Arthur turns to the side, bringing Merlin’s hand instinctively to his chest, and he vomits.

It clears things up for him. As he’s wiping his mouth with his sleeve, his head starts to clear a little bit.

He looks up again, and he sees that it’s just Gwen and Gwaine in the room now. The doors are closed. Good. He hopes that everyone left before they saw him crawl. At the same time, he hopes everyone saw it.

Arthur starts to stand. It’s shaky. Hard to accomplish. He does anyway. He’s still holding Merlin’s hand.

“Let me lay him down, Arthur,” Gwaine says gently.

Arthur nods. Together, they walk Merlin’s body to his bed.

When Gwaine sets him down, he does it with the tenderness of holding a child. The reverence of holding your own. He does it like it matters. Like Merlin can feel it.

Arthur feels sick. Is sick. Is there a difference?

He thinks, briefly, of his father’s madness. He wishes it was his. For a long time, Uther lived in a world where Morgana loved him still. Arthur finally understands what it feels like, to prefer madness to life.

Gwaine leans down. He presses his forehead to Merlin’s, brushing his hair out of his face. He’s trembling, half on the bed. Tears stay trapped, pressed as close together as they are.

In a moment of clarity, Arthur slowly lets go of Merlin’s hand. He stumbles away. Gwaine deserves a moment to himself. Arthur thinks wildly. Merlin would want that. A moment. Merlin, especially Merlin before, before the sacrifice, before the spells, before—Merlin would want that.

He has to grab hold of the posts around the bed, then the chair, and then the table, but Arthur does successfully make it across the room.

Gwen is sitting in a chair, her face ashen. When she looks at him, Arthur wants to kill himself all over again.

“You were right.” His voice comes out hoarse.

IF anything, Gwen’s face becomes more stricken. “No. No, Arthur, please don’t—Don’t say that. Don’t—I’m sorry—” She covers her mouth with her hands.

Arthur falls into the chair beside her. He reaches out, grabbing her hand. It’s so warm, it makes his eyes squeeze shut.

After a moment, Gwen takes a deep breath. He doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t look at Merlin either. He looks at the sick mess he left on the floor instead. It’s the only thing that makes him feel rooted.

“Lancelot is getting Gaius,” Gwen says. “I… I sent the guards to get him, under orders to not say anything, and Lancelot is waiting at the end of the hall… The servants are… They are…” she takes another trembling breath, her voice wet and thick. “They’re making sure you don’t have to tell anyone.”

Arthur nods. He squeezes her hand.

There’s things he should be doing. Getting answers, for one. Getting revenge, for another. Allowing Gwaine his revenge, should he want it.

Arthur can’t do anything, though, but wait his turn to return to Merlin’s side.

He’s stiff and cold and too languid and too hot, and he thinks, a bit wildly, that he never actually thought this day would come.

Never, not once. Even when Merlin was in danger, at risk, Arthur always knew he would protect Merlin. From poison or sorcery or swords or his father, from his own stupidity, from their own stupidity—he’d always been so sure that Merlin would be okay.

There was that moment between his father stealing the flower and Gwen retrieving it. And the night he spent when Lancelot took Merlin away from the Dorecha’s touch. And there was concern, over and over and over again, but it wasn’t real, not like this is real.

Merlin is dead.

Merlin is on Arthur’s bed, and he is dead, and he knows nothing. He is king of all of Camelot, and that is the most worthless thing a man could be right now. He thinks he would give up everything, his birthright, his father’s legacy, the connection to his mother’s memory in these halls, if only he could have Merlin back.

Something inside of him cracks.

Breaks, more like it.

Arthur hadn’t realized how tightly he had been holding onto himself until suddenly, his hands are empty. He’s got nothing left to squeeze, nothing left to cling to.

And like before, he is freer for it.

“Morgana.”

The surprise that Arthur feels is so sharp that he almost doesn’t realize he was the one who said it.

But it was him. He was the one who called his sister’s name.

“You… You think she did this?” Gwen asks, voice trembling again. Her chin wobbles, and she covers her eyes with her hands.

Gwaine straightens from Merlin’s bedside, sniffing loudly. His eyes and mouth are red, but there’s a fire blazing there, too.

“Aye, I’d believe she vindictive enough,” Gwaine says, voice gruff but angular somehow. “I’ll cut the bitch down myself, Arthur, I swear it.”

It’s unlike Gwaine, to vow such venom. It’s also unlike Gwaine to lose Merlin.

“No,” Arthur says, shaking his head, though he’s touched Gwaine is able to think of Arthur’s own complicated relationship with his sister at a moment like this. “Why would Morgana kill Merlin? It makes no sense.”

Gwen wipes her cheeks. She frowns. “Merlin is powerful.”

“How would she know that? We didn’t even know. And it’s not like he remembers her. No, there’s no chance that Morgana knew about Merlin’s magic. Killing him to hurt me…” The thought is like stone in his stomach. “I can’t believe she’d do that. Can you?”

Gwen hesitates then shakes her head. “Morgana is lost. But would she truly be that far gone?”

Gwaine doesn’t leave Merlin’s side, but he has angled himself to the others.

“We must summon her,” Arthur decides. He stands up, dropping Gwen’s hand, and walks to Merlin. He leans over, brow furrowing, searching Merlin’s face. Though he knows it, he reaches out, pressing his fingertips to Merlin’s pulse point. Or rather, where his pulse point would be. Nothing thrums back. No blood. No magic.

Golden eyes, frail little falcon, freedom, a cost too great—

“Why would you want Morgana?” Gwaine asks, bewildered. “Sire,” he says with feeling, and that’s how Arthur knows he means it. “Sire, your sister… She will not bring you comfort in this moment.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur, I am, you know I loved her dearly. But Gwaine’s right.” Gwen agrees. “Morgana is not who she once was. I’m not—I’m not sure Merlin would even want her at his funeral—”

“There shall be no funeral.” Arthur declares. They respond with outrage, but he’s distracted. Gently, his fingers move from Merlin’s throat to his sharp chin. He traces his jaw, suddenly unable to stop himself from doing anything else. How had he never touched Merlin here? Merlin has shaved him dozens of times. But Arthur has never touched him here.

Arthur lowers himself to the bed, careful not to land hard enough to dislodge Merlin or otherwise disturb him.

“Arthur! Answer us. Why won’t Merlin have a funeral? Because of his magic? Because, Arthur, I swear, I will challenge you where you stand—”

“Merlin will have no funeral,” Arthur explains, and he cups Merlin’s cool face, thumb stroking gently across his sharp cheekbone. “Because he will not remain dead.”

Arthur can feel the way the room stifles, the air frozen. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care what Gwaine and Gwen are saying behind him.

“Morgana is a high priestess. I don’t know much about magic, but I have been reading—thinking. Trying to figure out how to get Merlin’s memories back, you see.” He’s talking to Gwen, sure, and Gwaine. But he’s also talking to Merlin. He smirks a little, stroking Merlin’s face, brushing his hair out of his face, thinking about how delighted Merlin will be to learn that Arthur has been reading. He’ll be insolent, sure, but Arthur won’t mind. Soon, it won’t matter.

Arthur’s free now. Don’t they see? Like the bird, Merlin paid for Arthur’s freedom with his life. But Arthur’s not a child. He doesn’t have to stomp back to the castle grounds just because he’s supposed to.

He doesn’t have to do fucking anything. He’s the King of Camelot.

At least, he is for now.

“High priestesses have the power over life and death,” he explains.

Gwen inhales sharply. Gwaine lets out a soft, oh, fuck, Arthur—

“I will bring Morgana to the castle, and she will use her magic to bring Merlin back to us.” Arthur nods, quite pleased with his plan. Tenderly, he leans down and presses his lips to Merlin’s bow. A kiss, he’s always been told, is like a promise. This one is to Merlin.

When he looks back at his friends, he smiles. “And I will give her Camelot in return.”

Chapter Text

Merlin looks up at the sky, blinking away grime and soot from his eyelashes.

He sits up slowly, mindful of the pain in his body. It’s new. Or, at least, unfamiliar.

Beneath him, Merlin feels stiff, wilting grass. He runs his hands through the weeds, unfamiliar with the way it pokes and prods at him. He settles with his legs folded together, and he closes his eyes, breathing deeply. His stomach hurts. His back, too. His torso, which is somehow separate from his stomach.

When he opens his eyes again, the wind blows gently, and the grass sways, like it’s dancing.

Merlin startles with a laugh. “Oh!” He says fondly. “I remember you.”

The grass swirls again; preening, more like it. Merlin pets it gently, then lets himself lay all the way down on his back again. The grass sweeps around him, tickling the back of his neck, his forearms, the spot where his pants rise up and reveal his ankles.

“I was once like you,” he croons with delight. “Oh, I loved being you. What a beautiful time we all had, didn’t we?” The grass moves; or maybe that’s the wind, moving the grass. He can’t be certain. But his heart feels full all the same.

He thinks of the years he spent as grass, among them and as them. What a thing it is, to join a culture and, eventually, through the passage of time and the evolution of community, become part of some new version of the origin story. Merlin has done it dozens of times in his long life, and the grass, though the most unusual of all worlds he’s lived and died in, was actually quite like anywhere else.

Of course, the death was unlike any other time—that was the death that led him back to Camelot—

Merlin shoots up. His eyes widen and he lurches forward, half standing so quick that he falls down again. “Camelot!” He exclaims, delighted, terrified. He had travelled back in time! Oh, oh, yes, he had died, or he had time traveled, or some marvelous combination of the two, and he’d been back with Arthur!

Only he lost him again.

Or, no. This time, Arthur had lost him.

Merlin’s getting everything so confused. He remembers landing on hard rocks, knees bruised for weeks, after Lancelot sacrificed himself at the veil. He remembers outing himself as a sorcerer at the exact same moment in time, everyone safe. He remembers the weeks after that, mourning Lancelot, fearing Agravaine, hating Morgana—he remembers nothing but blank, black abyss.

Everything’s jumbled. Everything’s… Wet.

Yes, wet is it. Merlin feels like everything is under water. Of course, that makes sense. What is time if not an ocean.

Merlin’s found himself gently petting the grass again, the way one would pet a beloved animal in contemplation. His magic feels off, not wet, just… Muted. Diluted. So, maybe, the water is to blame after all.

“You are worse and worse company every time I see your sorry face,” a voice says, dripping with sincere disdain and abject affection.

Merlin’s head snaps up. He stares at the face in front of him—long, sloped, white, mischievous—and thinks as hard as he can. His weak magic flickers, like a horse’s tail lazily snapping at a fly, and Merlin remembers.

His heart sores. He holds out a hand and Will helps him stand. The motion draws them close together, and Merlin uses it as an excuse to hug his beloved childhood friend.

“I am not bad company,” Merlin says wetly into the crook of Will’s neck. “Just ask the grass.”

Will pulls back just enough to give him a face. “What do you mean, the grass?”

“The grass is a dear friend of mine,” Merlin explains patiently. He’s always had to explain magic very slowly to Will. The poor lad just had no aptitude at all.

Will frowns. “I know you said you’ve lived a long time, Merls, but you can’t just go mad.”

Merlin sticks his tongue out. “You can’t tell me what to do!”

“Can too! I’m as old as you, kinda.” Will rolls his eyes.

Merlin finally drops his arms from Will and steps back. The forest around them is shuttering in color, like paint dripping down a canvas. How interesting.

“Where are we going?” Will groans loudly. “I don’t want to go to that fucking cave again, Merlin, it’s depressing!”

Merlin laughs loudly. “I don’t know what’s happening!”

Will’s frown grows deeper. “You’re acting like you’ve never died before.”

Merlin shrugs. “Maybe I haven’t, in this body.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Merlin would answer Will’s question, but now the forest has completely bled away, desaturated entirely, and in its place, blossoming from the center point where Merlin’s feet touches the ground, the halls of Camelot are blooming.

Will looks around, whistling. “Oh, this hoity toity place. I can’t believe how much you loved it there.”

“Love,” Merlin corrects the tense issue in Will’s sentence.

Will squeezes his wrist. “Right. Sorry.”

They watch together as the halls of Camelot grow brighter. Then, bafflingly, Merlin sees himself.

Only, it barely looks like him. Oh, they have the same face—same blue eyes, same sharp cheekbones, same short cropped hair. But the boy in front of him is not Merlin as he is. It’s not Merlin as he’s been in a long, long time. He’s forgotten he was capable of looking like that.

His own body—a memory, he sees now—is so… young.

Merlin can feel Will’s eyes on him. He tries to hide how affected he is by this.

Merlin waits in the hallway, tapping his foot, looking around anxiously. He’s waiting for someone, clearly. All around him, servants are rushing by, haggard by their own tasks, but each one makes some sort of effort to grab Merlin’s attention—a nod, a smile, a hello, a quick little wave. And each one, Merlin replies to with equal earnestness.

Waiting on the opposite ends of two double doors, the guards Ennis and Paul are fighting yawns. Merlin keeps noticing, smirking, hiding his smile in his fist when they glance over. After a few beats of this, Merlin slides over and digs into his bag.

“Here,” he says kindly, handing each of them something. It’s hard to tell what it is, but Ennis lifts it to his eyeline, and brightens considerably.

“We can’t accept this,” he says meaningfully even as he looks at the small, round thing hopefully.

Merlin smiles. “You must!” He exclaims. “To have you reject my gift would be tantamount to spitting on my very face.”

Paul levels Merlin with an unimpressed look. “That isn’t true, Merlin.”

“It is where I’m from.” Merlin says confidently.

“My mother’s from Cenred’s kingdom,” Ennis reminds him.

Merlin smiles. “Well, ask your mother if you should deny yourself this fig after a long’s day work, then.”

Ennis and Paul exchange looks—and then, grinning, quickly eat the fruit. They close their eyes in unison, clearly savoring the delicacy.

“Merlin, I don’t know how you do it, but the fruit you pick is always the best in the whole kingdom,” Paul gushes.

Merlin grins. “Ah, it’s all in the color. You’ve got to really pay attention to the shades,” he explains.

“Well, whatever colors you see better than me, I’m grateful for it.”

The doors across the hall bang open – Arthur comes out, already in a spitting, angry mood. Paul and Ennis straighten instantly, faces back to casual masks, and Merlin offers Arthur a wide, goofy smile.

“Merlin, you idiot, stop distracting my guards!” Arthur hisses, eyes narrowed. So, the meeting with the king didn’t go well. Arthur storms off, and Merlin goes to follow him—

Merlin goes to follow him.

A hand on his shoulder stops him.

Merlin pauses, looking up at Will. He shakes his head. “I’m done looking at that prat,” Will says, but his eyes are soft.

Merlin looks down. He nods, and the color from the castle halls start to fade again. Something new will replace it, soon.

Merlin remembers now. What death is like.

Temporary, for him. Will’s told him this walk down memory lane is common—but there’s an end for the others. A resting place. A world where memories are held like figs, dripping around you from branches, easy to pluck and chew and savor, and then pick another as the first grows again on a branch halfway ‘round the tree, so when you find it again, it’s as surprising and delicious as it was the first time.

Will’s never had to say who greeted him when he awoke in his own first memory. He’s never had to say that almost all of them included a memory of that Merlin, the boy who died long before Arthur.

Merlin focuses on his friend again. He looks him over, as if assessing for injuries.

“It’s so clear here,” Merlin admits. “My memories—it’s like, my ears have popped. Like being in a plane.”

“A plane?”

Merlin shakes his head. “In the sky.”

“Ah. The metal dragon you told me about last time, then?”

“Not quite a dragon.”

“You would know, I suppose.”

“You know,” Merlin muses. “I forgot all about Kilgarrah until right now. When I wake again, I must remember to find him.”

If anything, Will’s eyes soften further. “Merlin,” he says tenderly. “Kilgarrah’s been gone for a long time now.”

“Right.” Merlin says, nodding. Except… “Will. On the other side, do you ever hear about time travel?”

Will sits down. “I have a feeling this is going to be a terrible story.”

Merlin smiles as casually and non-threateningly as possible. Then he sits down as well, happy as the fields of Ealdor color the space all around him, the tender-sore memory of his mother’s humming in the background, and Merlin tells him of everything that has happened to him since he last died.

Will’s face, though just a memory of a man dead centuries ago, is ashen.

“I knew that story would be awful.” Will complains loudly. “I don’t know what’s the worst part! The idea that you can go back in time at all or that you go back in time but not far enough to save me.”

Merlin winces. “Both were entirely out of my control.”

“I don’t like this, Merlin! I don’t like this one bit!” Will’s hands curl into fists. He hits the ground hard.

Merlin scowls. “The grass didn’t do anything!”

“Oh, triple goddess, enough with the grass!” Will points an accusing finger at him. “You can’t go around sacrificing your memories for people. Memories are important, Merlin.”

“So are my friends being alive!”

“You’re lucky you even have memories here to go to when you die now! What if they were gone and there was nothing left for you when you come to the threshold?! What if I couldn’t have come here because you didn’t remember me!?”

Merlin swallows tightly. “I didn’t know about the threshold.”

“It’s really inconvenient you forget about this place every time you leave,” Will grumbles. He relaxes, though, and surreptitiously pets the grass in apology. Merlin’s heart warms. What a good man, his best friend is.

“I’ll go back, right? Back… Then? Not back to the present, the future, without everyone?”

Now that he’s said it out loud, the fear grows legs. Merlin’s throat feels tight. His palms sweat. The spot beneath his ribs, but not quite touching his back, is twisting into a yarn ball, growing width and heft with every breath.

Merlin doesn’t think he can survive that. He’s survived a lot. He’s dealt with a lot. He went a little mad a time or two, sure, but mostly, he’s kept his grip on sanity, reality, and his destiny pretty double fisted. But if Merlin wakes up from this time with Will, seeing only the field of grass, and is forced to wait again… Merlin will lose his ever loving mind.

Will, though, looks concerned. Which, in turn, makes Merlin concerned.

“I think… We need to call in the big guns.” Will says.

Merlin frowns. “What do you mean?”

Will gestures to himself. “I love you, mate, and I’m always jostling to be the first one you see, cause, see, sometimes you go back real fast. But I think now, you need to talk to someone who can talk magic. And no matter how many of these little chats we have, we both know that’ll never be me.”

Will stands again, so Merlin does, too. Will pulls him in to a big, warm hug. He kisses the side of his cheek.

“See you next time you slip on some ice and die during a drag Frozen skate party,” Will whispers fondly before pulling back.

Merlin laughs loudly. “That only happened once, you dick!”

And then Will is gone.

Merlin’s laugh fades slowly, until he’s all alone in the field of Ealdor.

Unable to control it—nor stop himself if he was the one controlling it—Merlin’s world shifts again. As everything always does when he lets his guard down, it shifts to Arthur.

This time, the stone walls blurring to life around him are another of Camelot’s many halls. Merlin moves through the space fondly, his heart beating fast. Technically, he was here not that long ago. He remembers his second chance here, his wakefulness from the grass, the way Arthur had grown more and more distraught the longer Merlin stayed in place of his previous, younger self.

Merlin’s mind feels clearer here than it has in ages.

Perhaps that is why when Arthur slits into view, his face twisted in anger, that Merlin is able to so quickly recall this memory, even as it plays out before him.

Arthur’s already annoyed. When Merlin comes flying next to him, he’s clearly equally annoyed. Too young back then to see that Arthur’s face already was closed off; that already, his words would not matter to his king.

This young, brash version of himself was ablaze with anger—and, too, unrecognizable at the time, but true all the same, fear.

“How come I didn't know any of this? How come you didn't say anything?”

“That's what confidential means, Merlin. Keeping it from blabbermouths like you.”

Merlin did not fall for the misdirect. “You can't do this.”

“No, you're right, I can't.” For the briefest of all moments, there is hope. Then, dismissing, sneering, “Oh, wait a second... I'm the king, so I can.”

Merlin’s heart is full of Gwen. Of compromise. Of compromises that are worth it, of compromises that feel righteous and full of destiny. Not… Painful. Not like giving in.
“Surely it's a little bit...”

“A bit what?” He demands sharply.

“Soon?”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?” This ignorance is a chance—a way for Merlin to back away from this without harm.

But Merlin can’t. He knows what is right. What is destined. What is worth his own pain. “Erm, well—"

Arthur’s at his limit, though. “You mean Guinevere. I told you not to mention her name again.”

“Which is why I didn't.” He knows it’s stupid when he says it. From the way Arthur narrows his eyes, he knows it, too.

“How many times do I have to tell you? Guinevere made her choice. She betrayed me. Now she must take the consequences.”

“But—"

“But what?”

“Nothing.”

“That's right. Nothing.” Arthur turns to leave.

Merlin thinks of Arthur that day in the forest, his heart on his sleeve. He thinks of how besotted Arthur was, no magic, no lies between them. He thinks of what Arthur deserves. “Except that you still love her.”

Arthur stops in the doorway, Merlin glares at his back. Arthur pauses for a moment, then turns around and marches angrily toward Merlin.

“You ever say anything like that again and I swear you'll join her in exile forever.”

Merlin doesn’t want this memory. He doesn’t think this is fair! He turns, looking down the long hallway leading to Gaius’s quarters, and though he knows that this is not real, that this memory will fade soon, Merlin cannot bear to stay in it another moment. So he runs.

He runs, and runs, and the vision of Camelot flickers and stretches to try to keep up with him. He feels his magic flowing out, and he isn’t sure exactly what it is doing. He just knows that he can’t be here anymore – he can’t be trapped in memories that hurt, they hurt so much, they hurt then and they hurt now, weeks before, centuries after, wherever he is in the timeline, Arthur’s ability to turn his back on Merlin hurts.

Merlin could never turn his back on his king. He knows that. Gods, how he tried. He tried again and again and again, not necessarily in a row, though sometimes, yes, again and again in a row. He wanted to hate Arthur. He wanted to give up on him. He wanted to believe that he was tricked, fooled, manipulated into believing in a man who wasn’t worth it—

Oh, but Arthur was. Arthur is. Arthur is not only the Once and Future King. He is the love of Merlin’s eternal life. He is the most loved creature in the whole universe. Merlin has carried this love, so strong it bore magic itself, throughout the ages of time, and it left a mark throughout history. Arthur is beloved as a legend because he is beloved as a man, and Merlin knows that even if the stars evaporate and the planet burns, the last thing that any living being will think on this planet is Arthur Pendragon is loved because Merlin will be there at the end, and he will always, always, always love Arthur.

It's horrible to think about, though.

It’s horrible to know that he loves a man who would exile him for disagreeing, execute a man for being born wrong, ignore a man who bleeds and begs at his feet for anything, any drop of affection, any morsel of truth—

“Merlin.”

Merlin looks up automatically at the sound of his name.

It’s Gwen. She’s weeping, speaking to him softly. Except, no—not to him. Merlin walks forward, hesitating just a little at the threshold. Of course he’d walked to Arthur’s chambers. Round and round the merry go round he goes, stuck for Arthur, stuck on Arthur, stuck, stuck, stuck—

But Merlin doesn’t remember this scene. The sun is setting in soft, orange-gold rays through Arthur’s windows. Gwen is weeping, her hair undone, her dress stained… She sits in a tall chair beside Arthur’s bed.

But Arthur is not the one laying on the bed or being cried over. Instead, that is Merlin’s body.

He steps closer, inhaling deeply.

Correction: That is Merlin’s corpse.

It’s… Fascinating.

Merlin has never seen his own corpse. He supposes there’s probably video footage out there in the twenty-first or twenty-second century. He’s died near CCTV plenty of times, so it’s possible he could dig something up back then (later).

But he’s never actually seen what he looks like when he dies.

He also doesn’t remember ever dying in Camelot.

Near Camelot, yes. In the kingdom of Camelot, sure, plenty of times. But never in the castle—and certainly not in Arthur’s bed. The closest would have been the time with the poisoned chalice, and even Merlin isn’t sure if he actually died then, though Gaius always thought so.

Merlin walks closer, unable to fight his curiosity. He looks…

Small.

Like a child.

He supposes, in some ways, he was a child while he lived here.

God, to be a child. Merlin can’t even fathom it. To be born and to live just a handful of years, desperate, aching, clawing at the earth and the universe and the gods for a chance to be. Foolish, foolish kids. Didn’t they know they already were? They were themselves all along.

Merlin was himself back then. Kids always want more time to grow more into themselves. Merlin often thinks that he became less of himself, the more time he had.

Gwen is shaking as she covers her hands over Merlin’s. She’s murmuring to him. He craves the words she’s saying, but they’re not for him, not really. He knows of death more than anyone else who has ever lived or died, so he knows that a eulogy is not the same as a confession. He steps away, allowing Gwen her chance to grieve.

Where is he, anyway? In the timeline? Merlin’s been feeling clearer since he arrived here, but this memory doesn’t ring a single bell for him. He doesn’t remember dying here.

Oh! Perhaps it is after his time at the veil. He was giving his memories up; perhaps this is what happened to him afterwards. A memory can live in the bones and the muscles and the soul, it appears, even if it is not in the mind. He nods, feeling like that must be the case. He must not really be dead here, must be close enough to death to have Gwen crying like that but not dead enough that he’d be unable to remember this moment.

Fascinating. Does that mean that he had heard what Gwen was saying back then?

Well, in that case, this is part of his memories, and he does sort of deserve to know what Gwen was saying—

But just as he steps closer, Lancelot’s head pokes in. His eyes are bright red, his cheeks, too, are flushed pink. He’s been crying. Merlin’s heart aches so strongly for his friend that for a moment, he feels a pulse of magic radiate from his chest.

“My lady,” Lancelot says quietly. “Gaius is arriving up the stairs. Do you still…”

“Yes,” Gwen says quickly, standing. She leans down and presses a kiss to Merlin’s brow. “I’ll be back,” she whispers to him, then smooths down her skirts and slips from Arthur’s chambers.

Only Merlin is here now.

Two of ‘em, actually.

Merlin goes to Gwen’s abandoned chair, looking down at his own body. God, this is so weird… He hopes this memory moves on to a new one soon. It’s a bit boring, no one being in the room—

A clanking sound grabs his attention. Merlin startles, looking up, and thinks a bit wildly, oh, I’m not here alone.

From the corner of the room, almost hidden behind his privacy screen, is Arthur.

He looks…

Terrible.

Arthur is the color of pale, curdled milk. His skin is sallow and sunken, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than even when they were away on a war campaign. His beard has grown in, soft and scraggly, noticeable only for how he’s stepping now into the light of the sunset. His hair is greasy, flat against his skull, and he moves in a sharp, zig-zagging pattern toward the bed. For a bewildered moment, Merlin thinks that Arthur is perhaps drunk.

But he smells of sweat and sick, not alcohol, when Arthur finally collapses on the bed. He sits, one leg tucked underneath his body, his other thigh pressed against the dead body of Merlin’s leg.

Arthur swipes his hand Merlin’s face, as if moving hair out of the way, and he thumbs Merlin’s cheekbones.

From where he’s sitting, Merlin presses his own fingers to his cheeks. He wishes to feel this. He wishes he remembered this better.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and his voice is so low that it almost hurts to hear. Arthur has never sounded like that in front of Merlin. Not once. “You just hold on, okay?”

It solidifies Merlin’s theory that this is a very bad case of poisoning. He’d looked almost dead that last time, too—almost fooled Gaius.

“As soon as Gaius is here, we will fix this,” Arthur says. His thumb is still stroking Merlin’s face. It’s unfathomable that he is showing so much care, so much so that Merlin—the spirit of Merlin, that is—is sitting with his breath held tightly in his throat, for fear that he’ll somehow disrupt this moment.

“When you are returned,” he continues, his voice breaking on the final word. He stops, eyes closed, and to Merlin’s abject horror, tears spill down his cheeks from the way his eyes clenched shut. “When you are better,  we shall go for a ride to the field with flowers. Do you remember the one?”

He doesn’t.

“You took me there on your quest. I see now that there was much you were lying to me about then, but none of that matters any more. Of course none of that matters. You were right, Merlin, to not believe in me. To not trust me. Look what I did to you. To you.”

Merlin’s whole body buzzes. It feels like has swallowed fire; the pain is almost incomprehensible, seeing Arthur upset like this.

To his utter surprise, Arthur leans down. He presses his forehead right to Merlin’s. He keeps his eyes closed, and he bows over Merlin’s dead body in a terrifying masquerade of affection. Arthur’s shoulders are shaking. It takes Merlin a moment to realize that he is crying.

Weeping, in fact.

Merlin can’t take it any more. He surges forward, magic swollen like an infected limb, and he touches Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur freezes. His breath catches in his throat. “Morgana?” he whispers hopefully.

Merlin recoils. Morgana? When the hell did this memory happen? He looks around, whirling, as if this spirit version of himself could ever hope to defend his king, and then startles a second time—standing in the doorway of Arthur’s chambers is someone Merlin had entirely forgotten he’d ever met.

“Merlin!” She cries with delight. “Why, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you! Don’t tell me you fell off another combine?” She surges into the room, and as she does so, everything dissipates. Merlin has the chance to give this grieving, trembling Arthur one last squeeze on the shoulder before he disappears, leaving them both in an exact replica of his apartment in nineteenth century Paris. She grabs his hands and leads him to the couch, settling beside him with a bright grin, the same one that always gets him in trouble. “Now, tell me. Did you ever see that play we were talking about last time?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Sorry. The play was cancelled before I resurrected, and I never managed to catch it in the same town again.”

Her mouth quirks into a sad, droopy smile, so familiar that Merlin has to laugh. He leans forward, that confusing memory forgotten, and throws his arms around her.

“Ygraine Pendragon,” he says with joy. “I have missed you!”

Chapter Text

Arthur stares at Gaius and wonders if he ever really knew the man.

The feeling in his gut, more than anything else, is betrayal.

Arthur should know; it’s a feeling he’s had more than his fair share of experience with. He’s been betrayed, over and over and over again, by people he’s loved, by people he’s known for almost his whole life. Truly, why should Gaius be any different?

And yet, Arthur still feels betrayed. He still feels that horrible, childish, sickly guilt—the kind that curls his gut like homesickness, even when he hasn’t left his chambers at all.

Because Gaius, despite everything, thinks Arthur should let Merlin just stay dead.

He looks away. Beneath the betrayed hurt, there’s another emotion; or, several, actually. One is disgust. Disgust that Gaius would say such a thing, would even think such a thing. And anger. Anger, both on his behalf and Merlin’s. Anger, he knows, a little bit because he’s the fucking king and it would behoove him if people just remembered that every now and then.

But he can’t say any of that. Partly because his tongue feels thick and swollen and partly because he knows Merlin would not thank him to curse Gaius, even if it was on his behalf.

So, because he can’t say that, he stares. And Gaius keeps talking.

“You must exercise patience and faith, sire. Nature will take its course—”

And, okay, Arthur tried waiting. He sends a flicker of a glance over to Merlin’s body and thinks see, Merlin? I tried to be patient with him. You saw.

“Silence!”

Everyone in the room has stiffened. Because, truly, it feels like all of fucking Camelot is in this room now. Stifling him. Second guessing him. Calling him grief-stricken and not thinking straight.

He’s thinking perfectly clearly.

Arthur knows that war will decimate the kingdom. He knows that without Merlin, who he knows now is the only reason he was ever able to stand up against magical enemies at all, he and his knights stand no real chance against Morgana. Do they think him an imbecile? A child? He’s been raised since birth to care for this kingdom, to prepare for its war. He’s not a fucking idiot—not believing Merlin was using magic was not idiocy. It was trust. It was—

Well, whatever it was, it was not a lack of political knowledge.

And, worse, what everyone seems to be forgetting, is that he knows Morgana.

She’s twisted. She’s dark. She’s angry. She’s violent.

She’s still his sister.

And he thinks, he thinks, he really thinks, if he offers her his head on a platter, if he offers her the throne she believes is her birthright, she could make a good queen. She’s power hungry and mad and vengeful. Yes, he knows that she killed his people last time. But does that truly mean she can’t ever be reached? That if her vengeance is sated, she can’t be reasoned with? Arthur can’t believe that. If there is one person in this whole world who could overcome bone-deep bitterness and anger, it’d be Morgana. She always was the best of them.

So what if he wants to abdicate? It’s his life, it’s his throne, it’s his kingdom.

And, he thinks a bit selfishly, it’s his Merlin.

He gets to decide what the price of his crown is. That is a king’s birthright, always.

Arthur stands. He doesn’t mean to, but his body twists a bit so that he’s covering Gaius’s view of Merlin.

To be fair to the old man, he seems stricken. He’s pale and wet-eyed and stammering, and he looks terribly sad. He is grief stricken, losing the boy as close to a son as he’s ever had.

Viciously, Arthur thinks he isn’t sad enough if he can still tell Arthur to stop.

None of them are, in fact! Don’t they care about him! Don’t they love Merlin? Merlin loves each and every one of them. It sickens Arthur that they would choose the throne over Merlin.

Leon, Gwaine, Lancelot, Elyan, Percival, and Gwen all watch him with various expressions.

Gwaine looks hollowed out, like someone has sucked the life out of him. His eyes have not left Merlin’s body once. His only true ally. The only one not trying to convince him Merlin is not worth the price.

Lancelot and Elyan, though both also stricken, are focused almost entirely on Guinevere. Percival seems to be on Gwaine duty, though his eyes and nose are red, and his gaze flickers to Merlin almost as often as Arthur’s.

Leon, however, stands fast.

For this, Arthur hates him just a little.

“Sire,” he says, patient, clear, voice not trembling in the slightest. “You mustn’t give in to grief.”

Arthur flinches. “I am not. I am being practical. We could never survive a war with Morgana now.”

Leon shakes his head. “You can’t know that.”

“Merlin is our only magical ally.” Arthur says. “He can’t exactly help us now, can he!” He regrets the words only because of the harsh huff of air that Gwen lets out, and the squeak that follows.

He looks at her with tremendous sympathy. “Do not grieve, Gwen. He will be alright.”

“He’s dead, Arthur!” Leon exclaims.

The room freezes.

So rarely does the First Knight yell, that all attention is on him now.

He looks…

Furious.

“He is dead. Merlin has died on our watch—ours, not yours, as we are his knights as much as you are his king! He is—he i—he was my friend, too, Arthur!” Leon’s voice cracks. “But he is dead. He has died, and there is no good magic out there that can stuff a soul back into a body. You know this. You must know this! You all must know this! Magic—magic perhaps is not what we feared, but that does not make it—it—”

“You yourself were on death’s door, and magic brought you back,” Elyan says, his voice trembling, hopeful.

“Death’s door is not a cold body.” Leon looks at him with tremendous pity. “Perhaps if we were faster. If we found him sooner—”

At this, Lancelot, Gwaine, and Arthur all stumble backwards, as if struck. Arthur has never felt such a knife to the gut. Leon’s face twists into regret for a brief moment.

“He is dead. You must accept it.” Leon points this at Arthur, and he is all pleading now. “You must accept death and not turn to dark magic—do not be like your father, sire.”

Arthur bristles, cut open and puffed up at the same time. “My father started a genocide to respond to his guilt!” It is the first time he’s ever said it. Perhaps, it is the first time he’s thought it—all at once, one word after another, and not just a bit at a time. It sucks all the air out of the room. “This is not the same!”

Leon shakes his head. “Isn’t it? Handing the people over to Morgana—do you think she won’t slay anyone in her way? Slay anyone she pleases? You are not thinking straight—”

“Merlin is dead!” Arthur cries, and he feels like he’s sinking, far into the earth, or into water, perhaps, maybe not sinking, maybe drowning, maybe dying—“I am the king! I will do whatever I damn well please! Merlin is dead—"

“With the way you are behaving, perhaps that is a kindness.”

Gwaine turns his cold stare to Leon. When he speaks, it is as devastated as Arthur feels. “How could you say such a thing?”

Leon does not quiver under his glare. “How could you not! We owe him our honesty! Can any among you tell me that Merlin would find this arrangement just? That he would accept these terms? Merlin would not want to watch while Arthur lays himself at the feet of our enemies.” He surges forward, the high points of his cheeks bright red, his eyes blazing. He points a finger and jams it into Arthur’s chest. “He would have walked into a sword himself if it meant you were not baring your throat for the first chance to assuage your fucking guilt—”

Gaius shoots up, voice louder than Leon’s as he cries, “Enough!”

Arthur is sick.

His stomach rolls and rolls and rolls, like he’s on a boat, seasickness gripping him. Everything hurts. It takes far too long for Arthur to realize that the pain is because he is not even trying to breathe.

He looks away.

From where he’s standing—shaking—Gaius is looking at Arthur.

“Give it time, Arthur,” he pleads again.

Arthur blinks at him. He feels the waves of anguish, of guilt, but something else is prickling at him, too…

Suspicion.

“You know something.” He says, and hope, fear, and hatred claw at his throat. It feels just like when the ghost of his mother told him that his father caused her death. He feels so much all at once, only a sword makes sense. But he stays his hands, and he channels the way Merlin could always get whatever he wanted, just by asking the right way.

The answer, of course, is honesty—and humility. The very things Merlin has been trying to beat into his head with a stick for years.

Arthur’s never been good at it… But… He glances behind his shoulder. At Merlin’s still, pale face. His lips are no longer red. Arthur is sick all over again, so he turns back, ignoring the looks of his men, of Gwen, of everything, and grabs Gaius’s hand like a child.

“Please, help me, Gaius. How can you stand to breathe right now?”

Immediately, Gaius’s eyes well with tears. “Is it not enough that I beg you to stay your hand?”

He searches Gaius’s gaze… Reluctantly, Arthur shakes his head. “Would it be anyone else but Merlin lying there, I think so. But… No. As your friend… As his friend, I beg you, tell me, Gaius.”

Gaius deflates. He starts to go down, too low, too fast, so Arthur quickly helps him into a chair.

“I promised Merlin I would never say a thing,” he says, his voice cracking. “He made me swear, sire, on at least as much as you are invoking right now.”

“Then the call lays at your feet,” Arthur says, quite unfairly. He steps back, folding his arms across his chest. “You will tell me what you know. Give me reason to stay my hand. Or I will summon Morgana at once.”

The room is overstuffed. With emotion, with regret, with stench—Arthur recoils from the thought.

Gaius sits down again. This time, Arthur goes with him, all the way down, to his knees. Like a child, he sits at Gaius’s feet, waiting. Around him, his men shift, relaxing—except Leon, who stands alert, hand on his hilt, as if it brings him comfort. Arthur notes it, but can’t bring himself to do anything right now.

“I told you once, sire,” Gaius says slowly, tiredly. “That the word Emrys means eternal.”

Arthur remembers. His father, dying from a poisoned dagger to the heart; Gwen, dying from his father’s bigotry. His fear, his pain, his certainty that he’d lose everyone he’d ever cared about in one fell swoop.

He inclines his head. “That is why Merlin was able to save Guinevere,” Arthur says, to show that he was paying attention.

Gaius shakes his head. “That is why Merlin was not at risk if he chose to save Guinevere.”

Arthur’s brows furrow. Behind him, Gwen has crept forward. She places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Without thinking, he covers it with his own, allowing himself this one, small comfort.

“There is a difference?” Gwen asks.

Gaius’s eyes flicker to hers. Then behind her—Arthur follows his gaze and sees Lancelot, paler than before.

He fights all urges within him—the urge to be betrayed yet again that Lancelot knows more than he let on; the urge to force Gaius to speak faster; the urge to stomp his feet that he does not know what’s going on.

“You remember those months ago, when Merlin fell ill… The… Sun sickness.”

“That was a lie. It was because he was cursed to lose his memories,” he recounts. Gwen squeezes his shoulder again.

“Yes,” he says slowly. Gaius’s eyes fall shut. “That, too, was a lie.”

Already, dread is pooling in Arthur’s stomach. How many more secrets lay between he and Merlin? It feels impossible that there should be more. It feels like every day, there is some new, terrible, powerful way to deceive him, to shatter his trust.

He chances a single glance behind his shoulder. Just one look at Merlin’s oh so still body and Arthur straightens, stills his hurt. Who cares if Merlin has lied to him? Who cares if Merlin does not trust him? What the fuck has Arthur ever even done to convince him otherwise? He is a bad master, a bad king, a bad friend, a bad—he has failed Merlin. Who cares if he’s lied again? Arthur looks at Merlin’s corpse, and knows he can brave any heart break but this.

“Tell me,” he says, not tearing his gaze away from Merlin.

He looks so young like this. He looks just like the boy in the marketplace, holding out a hand, calling him friend. The boy who believed in justice and respect and fairness more than he did for his own head. Arthur himself was young then, though he hadn’t felt it at the time; but being with Merlin, rough housing, teasing, it had made him feel young. Like a teenager. God, when was the last time he felt young?

“Merlin did not simply lose his memories,” Gaius says.

Arthur’s head rounds back so fast, a snapping noise is the response to Gaius’s words.

Followed by a low, cut-open “Gaius” from Lancelot.

There’s murmuring, shuffling, but Arthur can’t give his knight any attention. His fingers tighten over Guinevere’s. Holding on, holding tight… He needs something to ground him.

“He just forgot.”

Gaius hangs his head.

Arthur, after a moment, frowns.

He glances at Gwen, then at his knights. Everyone looks equally confused.

“I’m not sure I understand the distinction,” Percival admits.

Gaius looks up at Arthur, and to his horror, there are tears in his eyes. “Merlin forgot… Many things. But prior to the Callieach, there was no magic interfering in his memory.”

“Then how could he forget…?”

“Naturally, sire, as you forget your own memories.”

That clarifies nothing. Arthur is about to give in to the thinly restrained rage when Lancelot clears his throat. Arthur turns to him, questioning. His chin lifts up, though it wobbles. He looks noble in this moment. Devasted, but willing to go down fighting… A true, stalwart knight. Merlin’s knight.

“Two thousands years,” he says, and his voice cracks. Lancelot’s face crumples, and though he keeps his chin level still, he does not quite manage to peace his expression back together. “That is what Merlin told me.”

Gwen has dropped her hand from Arthur’s shoulder. Which is all well now, because Arthur has gone so cold all over, he is sure he would have frozen her.

While Gwen moves to Lancelot, Arthur’s head begins to pound. He thinks of the way Merlin looked, all those weeks ago, on the grounds—right when he had started acting strange, right when he lost his memory. Defiant, unable to remember his place, unwilling to adhere to protocol and procedure and policy and—

Shoving him away, furious in a way Merlin has never been, biting like a dog, spitting at the mouth, his anger like a physical shield between them, “Maybe you just don’t know what’s like me!” And the heartbreak that came after, Arthur was so confused, so baffled, what had he done wrong, how did he always manage to get things wrong—

“The Merlin that woke in that field with us was our Merlin… Just from two thousand years in the future.” Lancelot says.

Arthur, still on his knees, falls back now, sitting on his ankles. He looks at Merlin’s pale, pale, pale, blue lips, hard skin, cold and growing colder, face.

“I don’t understand,” he says.

Merlin, reaching out, touching Arthur’s cape’s clasp. So close to his throat that Arthur’s pulse had raced, his eyes huge, his heart swelling. Then he’d said, “I think I remember this. Was this before or after I died?”

Lancelot’s still talking.

Explaining, perhaps.

But Arthur can’t hear him. Slowly, he shifts forward and up again, this time placing his hands flat on the bed.

Behind him, Lancelot stills—Gwaine is screaming, loud, anguished yells, and then Leon is, too, but the words are garbled and puffy and Arthur can’t hear them. He doesn’t care. What does it matter? He doesn’t care.

“Merlin,” he whispers, leaning in. His fingers inch forward, bit by bit, until he’s pressing against the brown fabric of his favorite jacket. It’s so thin. There’s a spot there, right there, right above the elbow, that is thin as cobweb. How long has it been like this? He’s going to get cold like that. Arthur feels disgusted with himself. He should have had this jacket patched up. “I’ll fix it,” he swears. He’ll patch up the jacket, and that’ll fix everything. Arthur’s fingers are cold. Merlin’s jacket is cold. Merlin is cold.

“This is a sick fucking joke!”

“It’s not a joke!”

“I’m going to kill you for saying that, it’s awful, it’s awful, you’re awful!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s true!”

Arthur scoots a little closer. He leans in, pressing his cheek flat against the covers. Merlin’s head is flat, so he’s staring up at the canopy. Arthur wants to do the same, but he can’t quite yet tear his eyes away from Merlin’s face.

“What do I have to do to get you up, lazy bones?” He asks tenderly. He curls his fingers into the brown jacket. “I’ll get Morgana, Merlin, and she was always so fond of you, she loved you, she really did, so she’ll fix this—”

“You can’t, sire, you can’t get Morgana—”

“Arthur, please!”

“Gwen, Gwen, it’s okay—”

“He’ll wake up.”

Everyone stops.

Arthur even stops breathing. For a moment, it makes him as still as Merlin, and it feels better—right. He should be still as Merlin, always, always.

“Say again, Gaius,” Arthur murmurs. His fingers reach up. He presses them to Merlin’s chin.

“Sire, please, listen to me.”

Arthur doesn’t fucking want to. He wants to lay here, still as Merlin, and he wants them either to both be alive or both be dead. He doesn’t even care which anymore.

He can’t bear it. He can’t bear it, he can’t bear it, maybe he is his father, because Merlin is not even his—his—Merlin is but his friend, but his manservant. How did his father live without his mother? How did he wake each day, how did he rule, how did he breathe? How could anyone? Merlin is not his wife, Merlin is not his lover, Merlin is not anything because he is dead, and if only, if only, Arthur could die soon, and be in Avalon, and be with Merlin—

Merlin for two thousand years. Two thousand years would mean—well, would mean—it would mean that he—

Arthur is on hour six without Merlin, and he would rather be dead than experience hour seven.

He cannot breathe. He cannot breathe, he cannot breathe, he cannot—

“Arthur,” that’s Gwen now. Her hands on his back, soothing.

“Arthur, sit up, that’s a good man,” Elyan, pulling him.

“Arthur, you must listen to Gaius,” Gwaine implores, hands on his shoulders, sincere.

Arthur’s vision is a mess. Melted, like paints dripping down a canvas.

He is lost within himself.

He looks up in panic. His hand grabs at his throat, and he scratches, desperate for air, and then Gaius’s concerned face clouds Arthur’s vision.

His lips move and words are tumbling but Arthur cannot recognize them. He stares, harder, trying so hard to focus, so hard—

“He will wake up,” Gaius is crying now. “Sire, please, please, breathe—Merlin will be okay. Merlin will wake up. He will wake up.”

Arthur’s ears pop. His lungs fill like water skins. “How?” He pleads.

And then Gaius’s warm, weathery hands find his face. He holds him there.

“Because, sire,” he says through his own tears. “Though Merlin can die, he cannot stay dead. Merlin is immortal.”

Chapter Text

Merlin leans back on the couch, pointing a mostly empty wine glass at Ygraine. “And that’s when I told her, no, I will not give you an annulment until you admit that I was right about Wiccan marriage ceremonies!” He cackles loudly.

Ygraine giggles demurely and shakes her head, sipping her own wine. “Oh, Merlin. I never tire of your stories.”

Merlin beams. “And I could never tire of you, Ygraine.”

There is kindness in Ygraine’s face that Merlin cannot simply adore. No, he must truly love it, for that kindness mimics so closely the kindness that is on Arthur’s face, that Merlin has no other ability to react to its shade with the same intensity he does when he sees the original.

And, like she usually can, Ygraine can tell instantly that his thoughts have drifted.

“You must know that he will return soon,” Ygraine says.

Merlin smiles. “You have been saying that for six hundred years, Ygraine.”

She waves a hand dismissively, much like Arthur does when he is being told the rivaling opponent is stronger than he is. “That doesn’t make it any less true,” she says. It is neither hope nor conviction in her voice, but a third thing, a type of knowledge that exists only within the words of mothers. Merlin, as he has never had a child of his own, never could replicate that sort of tone. He has heard it come from mothers since his first day, though; his own mother could speak with just the same intensity.

The longer Merlin is here, the greater he is able to remember everyone. Not quite everything, not yet, but what he does remember is clear, and it’ll only get clearer the longer he waits to return to his body. It is like here, in this liminal space right before souls move on, he is able to be entirely himself, with nothing missing, and with no pain. It is a gift, he knows, that he has opened hundreds of times, but truly only meant for once.

Still, despite this, he craves just a little bit longer here.

Merlin dips his head. He thinks of all the wonderful people he’s lost. His father, for one. His mother, his first wife, his secretary at the medical office, his friend at the bowling alley, his lover in the trenches, his darling at the bar, people lost, over and over and over again, returned to him only for the briefest of moments, and only if he is able, and only if they are willing. There are some people, people whose faces he can’t remember when he’s not here, that will not leave the great beyond to see him. Or cannot. Or shouldn’t. The specifics remain uncertain.

“The first time we spoke,” Merlin reminisces, unable to deny the train of thought leading him here. “You called me a son.”

Ygraine smiles indulgently. “Yes, I remember.”

“Hundreds of years ago.”

“Minutes, too.”

He inclines his head. “I suppose, yes.”

“You were so lost,” Ygraine says. She reaches forward and cups his cheek. Merlin leans into the touch. “Oh, you are lost now, but then, Merlin…”

Merlin remembers. It was two hundred years after Camlaan. War had ravaged most of the Camelot countryside. Invaders were threatening her walls, day after day. Sons of sons of sons of appointed cabinet members were the closest relation to Arthur, and it was no easy feat for Merlin to swallow back the sick of watching these mock-descendants ruin his country name for the sake of greed and fear.

He'd died in battle. Or killed himself. Often, the distinction was so razor thin, he never could properly decide what had happened, especially during war.

He’d died before then. Been here, to this place, before then. But each time, as his memories sharpened and his experiences played out before him like a play, Arthur remained aloof.

Will would be there. Balinor, sometimes. Hunith, usually. Once, devastatingly, Guinevere, and twice, boisterously, Gwaine. Typically, Merlin would be revived with enough speed to only warrant a few minutes of conversation with the first spirits who jostled themselves up to the forefront. But never, not once, Arthur.

At first, Merlin hadn’t questioned it. He, too, wouldn’t want to see him. A failure. A liar. A fraud. A loser. Truly, a loser, who lost, again and again and again. Why would Arthur see him?

But this time, dying bloody in Camelot red for a kingdom that did not even go by the name of Camelot anymore, Merlin couldn’t take. These brief moments were meant to be his break—his reward for eternity dying and living and dying again. He wanted, no, he needed, to see Arthur.

So he’d screamed. He screamed and he wept and he begged, and through the brightest light Merlin had ever seen, Ygraine had stepped out, gathering him in her arms, and rocking him like a babe.

It was then that Merlin learned Arthur had not been ignoring him.

Arthur, in fact, had never moved on.

“The lazy sod,” Merlin chokes out now, remembering that bomb of information anew. “Still sleeping away in Avalon.”

“At peace, though,” Ygraine reminds him, though her voice is tight. She, too, has been waiting a long time for Arthur. Impossibly, longer, though time does not work the same outside of this limbo.

Merlin inclines his head again. “I suppose. At peace…”

He thinks of Arthur, his beloved, his king, his friend, and tries to imagine when he might wake up. The things Merlin has seen… He isn’t so sure that whatever is worse that must be coming for the children of Camelot is something Arthur can solve. The wars that have already taken place were even outside of Merlin’s control.

Then, all at once, Merlin remembers something else.

He jolts forward. The wine splatters from his glass, splashing both himself and Ygraine. She yelps in surprise, jumping up just in time before the couch and the living room and the wine all disappear.

Merlin spins around, head dizzy as he tries to right his orientation.

He grabs Ygraine’s hands, squeezing tight. “He is alive!”

Ygraine’s brows furrow. “I—I suppose, in a way, safe in Avalon—”

“No!” Merlin interrupts. His eyes blaze. He grins and knows he must look maniacal. “No, Ygraine, there was this beautiful grass and I returned.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“There was grass! I was the grass, or the grass was me, or the grass was a really confusing metaphor that went too far, and either magic or death or something in between—”

“Merlin, slow down, please, I don’t understand!”

Merlin takes a deep breath. Still holding Ygraine’s hands, he sits down, pulling her with him. By the time they land, they are on soft grass in a replica of the field behind the south wall of the castle. Merlin releases her hands and, as slow as he is able, recounts the last few months of his life.

Word by word, Ygraine’s eyes get wider. By the time Merlin is telling Ygraine about his re-do with the gatekeeper, her hand covers her mouth and tears shine her bright blue eyes.

“What happened after that?” She asks when he pauses.

Merlin shakes his head. “Truthfully? I don’t remember. It’s there but… Fuzzy. I don’t know how to explain it.”

She frowns. “Why would that be?”

“Well, I’m not sure. You’re the supposed magical expert, aren’t you, Ygraine?” He says it both teasingly and a little desperate.

“You say that to me, Emrys?” She raises one perfect brow.

Merlin shrugs. “You usually have an answer.”

“No, you usually have an answer and I tell you to trust your heart.” She clears her throat, leaning in, and grabs his face between her hands. Her eyes twinkle just like Arthur’s. “So, Merlin. Trust your heart.”

Merlin licks his lips, thinking. It’s so hard to trust his heart when he’s here. He feels like his heart is full, like he’s drunk, when he’s here. But…

“I’ve not been here with those memories before so they’re taking a little longer to settle in,” he decides.

Ygraine nods a head. “Very well. That sounds reasonable enough.”

Merlin shrugs. “It’s just a guess.”

She drops her hands but nods still. “I believe it is a good one.”

Merlin smiles. He loves Ygraine. Her friendship, though given in small bursts, means the world to him.

He regrets so deeply that every time he leaves this place, he forgets it.

But now that he’s thinking of it, thinking of returning to a time where Arthur lives and breathes, it’s all he can do to not race back. He closes his eyes, briefly, and imagines Arthur. He feels him, the way Merlin feels his magic, and his heart hurts. Wherever Arthur is, he is in pain; hurt? No, not injured. But sad. Merlin remembers the faint, comatose memory of dying in Arthur’s room. Oh, he must have been so confused. He needs to return to his king before he’s aware that Merlin’s gone again.

There’s a fluttering, like fingers across his cheekbones, like air swirling, and then, quick as it came, it’s gone. For some reason, it leaves Merlin feeling bereft.

“I need to return,” Merlin says regrettably. “I don’t know how long I’ve been gone, but I’ve lingered quite a bit… I wouldn’t want Arthur to have to get his own breakfast.”

It’s a joke, of course, but Ygraine’s face falls. She nods.

Merlin’s heart lurches. “I’m sorry, Ygraine. I would give him your message but…”

“Your memories of this place do not travel past the veil,” she says, nodding. Though she does not so much as sniffle, Ygraine’s chin lifts, and that alone tells Merlin that she is devastated.

“I’m sorry.” It’s not enough.

Ygraine sighs. “I understand. I hate it, but I understand.”

Merlin hugs her. She hugs him back, tightly. After a brief moment, she squeezes even harder, burying her face into his neck, holding the back of his head tenderly. And Merlin knows this hug isn’t for him. In this instance, they are not old friends—they are surrogates for one another, both standing in for the same man.

“I hate to know he is suffering,” Ygraine admits softly as she pulls away. “It is a mother’s job to protect her child. I—I should be there. I should have been there all along. And yet, I cannot regret it at all, because without my absence, he would not have been born at all.”

“It is unfair,” Merlin murmurs. He swipes Ygraine’s tears away. “You both deserved to have one another. I am sorry magic failed you.”

She sniffles, shaking her head. “Oh, Merlin. Magic didn’t fail me. I would die a thousand times for Arthur.” Her eyes soften and she reaches out, trembling, to pat Merlin’s cheek gently. “As I know so would you.”

Merlin hates this.

He hates that he cannot die. That his most beloved friends have. That he has to forget that there are people who remember him, who love him, who are waiting for him. He is tired of being alone.

And, yes, he supposes that for the first time in almost two centuries, he will be returning to people, to at least some of the people he loves. He will be returning to Arthur—and that is more than enough to get his heart racing—but he hates that he will leave Ygraine here all alone.

She can’t tell him what is waiting for her on the other side. But, if it is reunification with your family, does that mean when Ygraine leaves him she goes back to Uther? To Agravaine?

The very thought makes him want to cry.

He thinks of Arthur, his strong, brave, loyal friend. The way he looked that day hundreds of years ago looking at the shade of his mother, wishing for it to be real. The way he looked that night across the firelight, asking him if he should bring magic back. The way he’d looked in that mysterious memory, weeping over Merlin’s body.

He doesn’t want Arthur to weep over him.

He doesn’t want Arthur to weep at all.

He looks up at Ygraine, and an idea, reckless, stupid, foolish comes to mind.

There’s a voice in his head, which sounds a hell of a lot like Arthur, that says he’s an idiot and this is a terrible, awful idea.

But who cares? Arthur’s also reckless. Stupid. Foolish. And Merlin loves him anyway. So he supposes, if he can learn to deal with that, then perhaps Ygraine can, too.

“What do you say we blow this popsicle stand?” Merlin asks.

Ygraine’s brow furrows, and she cocks her head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Merlin’s eyes flicker across Ygraine’s face. She’s a good woman. A kind woman. A woman who sacrificed—who was sacrificed—who deserved better. He wants to find some way to try to right the wrong of Ygraine dying for a child she’d never meet and Arthur living for a mother who never held him. “Come with me.”

Ygraine’s jaw drops. “Merlin! I—I can’t!”

“Sure you can,” he replies.

“What about the natural order!” She exclaims. “What about the laws of magic?”

He leans forward. “What about adventure?”

Ygraine’s eyes light up.

Merlin tugs harder on that thread. “What about surprises? You’ve always said you want to see my magic in person.”

“I—What would happen to me?”

Merlin shrugs. “I’d keep you safe. Don’t you trust me?”

“I do,” she answers hesitantly. “But… What about what’s right and wrong? Magic comes with a price.”

“Then let me pay the tab.” He dismisses. He searches for the way to get his yes. Unsurprisingly, the final blow is in her blood. Merlin grins and Ygraine’s blue eyes well with tears. “Come on, Ygraine. What about friendship?”

Breathing deeply, her eyes dart across his face, searching for something. Then, with tremendous bravery, Ygraine nods.

Beaming, Merlin leans forward, kissing Ygraine’s forehead. And the two shoot through the veil and into the world of the living.

***

Night falls around Camelot in a soft, cool blanket. The air is almost chilling, but Arthur keeps the windows open. The smell of Merlin’s dead body is starting to really stink up the place. Arthur thinks, Merlin, you slob, it’s going to take you days to appropriately air this out once you wake up, and then he lets out a slightly hysterical laugh that, unfortunately, devolves into sobs as he covers his face with his hands.

It has only been a few hours since Merlin’s body was brought back to him. Only a few hours since his whole world shifted, leaving his feet uncertain and his air thin. He kicked everyone out nearly half a candlestick ago, saying he was going to try to rest. No one pointed out that he was clearly jittery and that there was a corpse in his bed. No one pointed out that likely Gaius should be the one to stay, in case Merlin’s revival required immediate medical attention.

But Arthur doesn’t want to be surrounded by the others. He doesn’t want Merlin to be surrounded, either. When Arthur is sick, when Arthur is dying, he always likes it best when he wakes and Merlin is the first person he sees. He hopes that maybe Merlin’s best waking is seeing him.

Selfishly, he doesn’t want to risk seeing Merlin’s face light up when he sees someone else instead. He doesn’t want to face the consequences of it not being him.

He sits on the bed, tenderly, and strokes Merlin’s face. Now that he knows Merlin is waking soon, he is able to breathe a little easier. In fact, if he thinks about it too long, he feels a little embarrassed for how he behaved. It is quite… Telling, he thinks, that he so immediately despondent. He feels weak because of it. Or maybe with it. The way he feels tired and wrung out after vomiting, Arthur feels like his insides have been scooped out and laid vulnerably on display.

But for a few more minutes or hours, Merlin is under his care, and he can stroke his cheek, because it will feel soothing, like how his mother used to do it. Merlin told him that once. He had asked what it was like, to be sick back in the village. Astutely, Merlin had realized instantly the question hiding beneath Arthur’s words. What was it like to be sick with a mother? And Merlin had described, in that soft, lilting way of his, how his mother would smooth out his hair, stroke down his cheek, bring him bread, kiss his cheek, sing to him.

Arthur can’t sing. He’s never even tried, he doesn’t think. He’s hummed. But singing is for… For…

He doesn’t know. What excuse does he have? What words accompanied his father’s supposed scorn? He realizes he doesn’t know them. Did his father prevent him from singing? Or was it just fear that his father would that stopped him? Singing is lovely. Singing is comforting. Song is a form of connection, of communication, of community. Arthur’s never sung.

How much else has Arthur avoided, never trying, never wanting to try, because of fear? Fear borne from nothing, truly, because his father had never even forbade it. What else has Arthur lost because he was too afraid to hear his father say he couldn’t have it?

Unbidden, his eyes fall back to Merlin. He’s so still. So pale. So blue and grey. It kills Arthur to see him like this. It kills him to know that it’s his fault.

“Gwen was right,” Arthur murmurs. “She was right, Merlin, I was never a good enough friend to you. I was angry. I was angry that you weren’t who I thought you were. And not because you betrayed me, you didn’t, you protected yourself. I see that. But I… I thought I knew you. I thought everything about us was… And it hurts. But losing you is worse. Worse than anything. So I’m sorry I couldn’t forgive you before. And I hope you can forgive me for being so thick, for taking so long. I won’t disappoint you again, Merlin, okay? And all you have to do… All you have to do is come back to me.”

Arthur leans down, closing his eyes as he draws closer, and presses his lips, just gently, to the side of Merlin’s mouth, near his cheek. Just like Merlin’s mother would do when he was sick.

Just as Arthur’s lips make contact with Merlin’s cool, dry skin, heat pours into the room like a furnace. Arthur’s heart skips a beat, fear swelling inside his chest, but it’s too fast for him to pull away. And then Merlin’s body is moving, rising, his chest climbing up and his lips parting as he gasps in a long, loud pull of air. The motion shifts Merlin’s once-still head over, just a centimeter, but it’s close enough, and Arthur is close enough, that their lips ever so slightly brush.

Arthur reels back, heart pounding, and sees Merlin’s bright gold eyes fixed on him. From between his parted lips, soft gold steam pours out of him.

Arthur lets out a desperate cry, something guttural, something inhuman, and he surges forward, hands grabbing at Merlin’s shirt as his chest rises and falls. Magic swirls around them, through Merlin’s very veins—lighting him up with sunlight from within. Each breath Merlin takes brings more and more color back to his face, until, finally, after less than thirty seconds, the gold fades from Merlin’s eyes, leaving behind bright, brilliant blue. His lips are pink. His cheeks are, too. And Merlin’s gaze is fixed, bright, happy, alive.

“Merlin!” Arthur cries. There’s roughly a thousand things to say right now, but Arthur’s crying again, tears streaming down his face, and all he can let out is a desperate, broken, “Merlin!” again and again.

Merlin’s brows furrow for just a second, as if he’s confused. Arthur can’t wait another moment. He yanks him up as hard as he can, crushing their chests together, he winds his arms all the way around Merlin and buries his face in Merlin’s neck.

“You are never leaving my sight again, Merlin,” Arthur orders. It comes out a bit wobbly, but surprisingly strong. He’s proud of that. He sounded almost kingly. After the last day, he could use that authority again. His chest hurts from the ache, from how fast his heart is beating. He clings to Merlin, placing one hand over the center of his back, and just revels in the magic of Merlin’s lungs filling again and again.

“Sire, I daresay we are circumventing all manner of appropriate master-servant relationships,” Merlin teases.

Merlin teases. Arthur’s heart soars. For Merlin’s voice is clear and calm and steady, as if he is not injured at all, as if he is absolutely safe and fine—

“To hell with appropriate,” Arthur says shakily as he pulls back. He is crying still, but beaming, too, and Merlin’s face relaxes into a bemused, if a bit baffled, smile. Arthur isn’t done, though. He puts a hand to Merlin’s shoulder. Then he ducks his chin a bit until he can catch Merlin’s eye. Certain he has his attention, he squeezes Merlin’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Merlin. I am so sorry. You don’t deserve—you don’t deserve what I’ve put you through. As your king—no, as your friend, I swear, Merlin, I will be better. For you.”

Merlin’s brows have leapt halfway up his forehead. His lips have parted. Arthur can’t stop staring at them. They’re pink, the color of life, and Arthur is so pleased at his friend’s return, the color is making him dizzy. The color of Merlin’s lips is proof that he is alive.

Slowly, a tongue darts out between Merlin’s lips. That, too, sends a thrill through Arthur. Which is quite reasonable. After all, for Merlin to move his tongue is to be alive. He is just so thrilled he has not killed his manservant forever.

Merlin clears his throat, and Arthur’s eyes dart up to Merlin’s again. Gods, they’re as blue as the sky! Arthur lets out a happy laugh, and Merlin’s expression softens.

“Does this mean I should return your gift?” He teases gently, reaching up to brush Arthur’s hair out of his eyes. Against all decorum, Arthur leans into the touch.

Then he actually hears what Merlin said. “What gift?”

Merlin smiles. It reaches his eyes. It crinkles his nose. Arthur thinks, oh, yes, how silly of me—you are my gift. Just as he is about to insist that Merlin never return it, a voice rings out behind him.

“It is quite inappropriate, Merlin, to refer to a person as a gift.”

Arthur spins around, coming face to face with the very corporeal face of his long dead mother, and promptly passes out.

Chapter Text

In the dungeon, bored out of his mind, King Carleeon quite literally twiddles his thumbs.

“This is outrageous,” he mutters.

The guards, of course, know that it is, actually, a little outrageous. After all, he’s a king and he’s just been sat in this cell for over a full day without so much as a sentencing.

The guards would typically be gossiping like old fishwives over this, but as it is, the guards in Camelot are a little distracted.

Outside of the king’s cell, Ennis is holding a weeping Paul in his arms.

“Cheer up, Paul, you know he would never want you to be so sad.” Ennis tries, rubbing comfortingly on Paul’s biceps. Paul, though, is not comforted at all. He keeps crying, inconsolable. Truthfully, Ennis isn’t feeling very consolable himself.

Merlin was the best of ‘em all. He was kind and considerate and always had the time for you, no matter who you were or how busy you were.

He made potions better than Gaius, pies better than Cook, and jokes better than any court jester. Even the old King Uther didn’t hate the boy! He was just…

“Good!” Paul weeps. “He was such a good boy!”

Ennis looks up as Briony, a serving girl, comes in. Her nose and eyes are bright red. He nods at her, and she curtseys very lightly, sniffling as she passes him holding a prisoner’s tray.

Ennis steps a bit closer, still holding Paul, to keep an eye on Briony, as that’s his job.

The girl does try her best to be professional as she slides the king his meal, but her voice is stuffy and nasally when she says, “Here you are, King Carleeon.”

“Thank you, girl,” he says, rather politely. Then he frowns. “Why is it every single person I have seen today has been crying?”

Briony just sniffles harder. Ennis shakes his head. How ever to describe Merlin?

“Is it just that the people of Camelot have finally realized what sort of man their king is?” Carleeon continues. “If so, do not fret, dear—my Queen and Emrys will free me, and we will free the people of Camelot.”

“It’s nothing about King Arthur!” Briony defends. “He’s a good king, isn’t he!”

Of course, this just sets Paul off harder. After all, everyone in Camelot knows how much their king loves Merlin. Gods above, Ennis prays that King Arthur survives this heartbreak.

To lose Merlin like this… Ennis just isn’t sure how their king will react.

“Then tell me, at least to put me at ease that we are not yet at war.”

Briony hesitates, but she’s crying again. “It is only we lost a—a—royal servant.” And then she runs off, weeping as she goes.

Paul, finally coming to himself, shakes himself free of Ennis to go after her. Ennis remembers belatedly that they are courting.

He watches Paul go and then turns back to stand guard.

King Carleeon looks baffled.

“A royal servant is turning the guards to mush?” He sneers, looking down on them all. Ennis hates that. Merlin never looked down on anyone. His chin wobbles thinking of it. “If I had known how weak Camelot was, I would have attacked months ago.”

Ennis shakes his head. “You don’t get it. Merlin was different.”

At this, King Carleeon pauses. His brows furrow. He swallows, once, twice, then clears his throat.

“Merlin?”

Ennis nods. “Aye, Merlin. He was our king’s manservant and our healer’s apprentice. Never was there a kinder soul.”

Carleeon looks down. Ennis frowns.

“I met him,” Carleeon admits. He shakes his head. “Ah, what a shame. He was a good lad.”

Ennis’s eyes fill with tears. “He was,” he says, voice breaking. Then he straightens. He’s working, after all, defending the kingdom. He can’t give way to his emotion like the servant girls can.

Carleeon goes back to sit on the bed. He pushes his food around. Ennis shouldn’t be surprised that Merlin had endeared himself to the prisoner king already. Who could hate a boy as good as Merlin?

A voice clearing his throat grabs Ennis’s attention. He turns and stiffens, nodding, as Lord Agravaine comes slinking around the corner. The man has always given Ennis pause, if only for how he treats the servants. He is perhaps the only dry eye in all of Camelot today.

“I am here to talk with the prisoner,” Agravaine says.

That seems unlikely to Ennis. But who is he to question a lord?

“Privately,” Agravaine adds.

Ennis hesitates. But, truthfully, Agravaine is a strong man, a good fighter, and Carleeon is behind bars. And besides—Ennis could use the break. He needs to blow his nose. And besides, he is going to need to report for duty upstairs very soon.

So he leaves, dipping into the hall to have a moment of reprieve. There is no kind smile or offer of fruit. Gods above, but Ennis already misses Merlin.

Looking around at the somber attitude, he shakes his head. They all miss Merlin.

***

Across the forest of the dead, Mordred jolts awake.

Before he even opens his eyes, he knows that something is wrong. Gone is the stench of bodies, the aching stretch of exhaustion, the weakness of adrenaline and fear.

Gone, too, is pain. He pats at his chest desperately, confused, but instead of chainmail and blood, Mordred just feels fabric.

He sits up, heart hammering fast. Some of the fear is coming back because this doesn’t make sense. This isn’t the Valley of the Fallen Kings. This isn’t the Great Battle. This is…

“Saoirse?” He asks, bewildered, looking at the sleeping druid across the camp.

Saoirse, dead now for close to six years, sleeps soundly. Her braided hair is as bright as tomatoes, and Mordred’s eyes well with tears.

He realizes all at once what is happening.

He must be in Avalon.

Mordred was never certain. What happens to a person after death, of course is theorized. Is hoped. There’s the soft murmurings whispered to in an orphan’s ear that he’ll be reunited with his mother, his father, and another father anew. That the woman he loved, put to death, would be in his arms once more.

But Mordred hadn’t been sure. And while he is confused that Saoirse is the one to greet him, and that she’s sleeping on the job, he is beyond grateful that he was given this chance.

“You are slow moving for a warrior,” a voice says from behind him, and Mordred spins quickly.

Though he was accused of being slow, Mordred is young and fit and trained by the very best knights in the realm. So he’s on his feet, facing his opponent, hand at his waist to grab his sword—

His eyes flicker down in confusion. There is no sword there.

He looks around. There’s no weapons anywhere. Perhaps there are no weapons in Avalon…

“You are not so impressive this young,” the voice says again.

This time, Mordred manages to find her in the darkness. Though shrouded in shadow, the thin sloping face of a pale woman stares at him, and Mordred unthinkingly steps forward.

“Are you the gatekeeper of Avalon?” He asks gently.

She smiles at him. “A gatekeeper of sorts, yes, indeed.”

Mordred is nodding, already relaxing, when she continues:

“But you are not in Avalon, young knight.”

Mordred freezes.

This, too, he feared. A place of repentance, of sorrow, of misery—was he banished here for eternity for his final acts? The blood lust was so strong—the loss of his beloved. The hope in Morgana’s eyes. The disgust in Emrys’s.

The woman speaks again. “You are, in fact, at the druid camp you escaped from many years ago.”

Mordred falters. “Why… Why have I been brought here?”

She smiles, and it is almost a kindness. But moreso than that, it is a warning. There is something powerful about this woman—something dangerous. Her downturned face and grey hair should be comforting, the way wise women often are. But on her, it is foreboding. “Emrys thinks me weak.”

Mordred considers that. “Emrys is the one who is weak,” he replies finally. There is a sharpness to his tone that sounds off—he thinks, perhaps, it is his body, too small to hold the rage of a man. “Emrys is always underestimating his enemies.” Mordred pauses again, considering the woman. “Are you his enemy?”

This time when she smiles, her teeth show. There is, in fact, no misunderstanding this expression—any trace of kindness has been wiped away. Then, with a gleam in her eye, she nods. “Yes.”

“Who are you?”

“To you, a friend,” she says. “I am the Cailleach.”

Merlin frowns as Arthur’s body goes limp, shooting forward to catch him.

“Oh, poor prince,” he soothes, carefully using his magic to lift Arthur and lay him in the bed. Since he himself is currently laying in the bed, it takes a bit of maneuvering to get Arthur flat. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

Ygraine darts forward, her hands and eyes flickering wildly. She hovers by the farthest edge of the bed, her blue eyes wide and slick. She blinks rapidly, and some of the wetness drips down her cheeks in quick tears. Instead of brushing them away, though, she just reaches out.

She falters, though, and ends up winding an arm around one of Arthur’s bed’s columns. She stares at him, asleep, with wonder.

Merlin belatedly realizes that this is as emotional to Ygraine as it is to Arthur. She, of course, has never even seen her son.

Merlin carefully climbs out of the bed, brushing a golden lock out of Arthur’s face, before turning to Ygraine.

“Come,” he says gently, holding out a hand. “Meet your son.”

Ygraine’s eyes flash to his, quick as an arrow, before she shakes her head. “No, no, he’s—he’s asleep.”

“He’s unconscious,” Merlin corrects with an affectionate eye roll. He reaches out again, smoothing a worry line on Arthur’s face. He feels a bit better touching Arthur—it feels like he’s been separated from him for a long, long time. His magic is practically bouncing against his ribcage trying to get out. But Merlin’s had a hell of a lot of experience at shoving down whatever he’s feeling to focus on his patient. And right now, Ygraine is as terrified as any expectant mother.

“I… I don’t want to disturb him!” She says, voice a bit frail.

Merlin wiggles his fingers to Ygraine. “Ygraine,” he says with feeling. “Come and meet your son.”

She licks her lips nervously, letting her hands fall to her front. She clasps them together, standing a little straighter as she takes one very small step forward. “I don’t—Shouldn’t I wait for him to be awake?”

Merlin shrugs. “Many mothers meet their sons before their child can really remember it.”

Ygraine nods. Slowly, inch by inch, she moves towards him. Finally, her hand slips into Merlin’s, and he tugs her the final way forward. He wraps an arm around her, holding her steady, and watches her face.

Ygraine was young when she died. Merlin never asked her how young; nor did he ask Arthur. But she looks not so much older than Arthur does now. Especially with this petrified, hopeful look on her face. Merlin has often thought the two resembled each other quite closely; this, he thinks, is their most matched expression.

“He’s so beautiful,” Ygraine whispers. Her fingers twitch, and Merlin nods in encouragement until she sits delicately on the edge of the bed and brushes her fingers against Arthur’s knuckles.

As soon as she makes contact with him, she begins to cry.

There is a softness to it at first, her shoulders gently moving as she blinks through tears. But then, after just a few heartbeats, Ygraine really puts her back into it so to speak. She begins to wail, a haunting, desperate sound—a sound that Merlin knows from experience comes from right behind the belly, right at your core. A type of sobbing that can turn one inside out, that will stick to a person long after they’ve stopped crying. Merlin knows that this is the wail of grief.

He very, very slowly backs away. Ygraine doesn’t seem to notice. As much as Merlin would really like to wake Arthur, to see him and tell him all about his adventure, he knows that this a moment that he is not meant to see. Arthur would not thank him for his observations, even if Ygraine may.

So he moves quietly, using a servant’s step, until he manages to get out of Arthur’s chambers. He closes the doors extremely quietly, careful to not let them slam. With his back still to the hall, he closes his eyes to hide the color and presses his fingertips to the lock. There. Now, no one will disturb them until they’re ready.

Then he turns with a smile, waving already to whichever guard is on duty. His smile crinkles a little as he recognizes Ennis and Paul. He’s always enjoyed those two.

“Evening!” He says cheerfully, then his eyes widen in horror and Merlin doesn’t have time to move or cast magic before both men promptly pass the fuck out.

Chapter Text

When Arthur comes to, someone is stroking his hair and humming.

At first, Arthur assumes it is Merlin. Merlin is always there when he wakes up from battle—it is one of the few comforts that he allows himself, even when he’s failed. But then… That voice is high for Merlin. He wrinkles his nose, thinking, as he draws himself from the abyss of a good sleep. Gwen? Would she be here, singing to him like a mo—

Arthur surges forward, heartbeat tripling. He’s panting before he’s even managed to open his eyes.

And sitting at his bedside as he has always, always, always wished—is his mother.

Arthur has never felt more afraid in his whole life.

“Arthur,” his mother—his mother—breathes. She’s looking at him with obvious trepidation, or, even fear, just as he is looking at her with the same.

“I… I don’t understand,” he whispers. His voice comes out so small, it’s a wonder she can hear him at all.

She smiles at him, a soft thing, and it floors him. Destroys him. His eyes well with tears.

“Merlin,” she says as if that’s an explanation.

Arthur shakes his head. “I… I don’t…. I don’t understand,” he repeats.

Ygraine’s thumb strokes his brow. Arthur loses his battle and begins to cry.

There is nothing proud about it; he has no stoicism, no anger. It’s all confusion, the kind of fuzzy brained fear that a child feels after a fever. He cries, fists digging into his blanket, and for the first time in his whole life, his mother soothes him.

“You’re alright, precious boy, you are safe, I am here,” she murmurs, leaning forward to gather him in her arms. Arthur scrambles closer, clinging to her. Real or not real, he does not care. This is not like the shade—even if she is an apparition, she is a gift from Merlin, and so there is no fear to hug her like this, no cowardice or stupidity to avoid.

Arthur does not know how long he sits there, curled in his bed, letting his mother rock him like he is but a babe. But when he finally pulls back, the tear streaks on his cheeks have dried, and his mother is looking at him softly.

“There is much you don’t know about Merlin,” she tells him tenderly, leaning in to kiss him on the forehead. Arthur’s breath catches, and he has to stiffen all his muscles to keep from crying again. “But know this, sweetheart; that boy would do anything for you.”

Arthur’s throat is dry. “Like… Like bring you back?”

She smiles. It’s so beautiful. “Yes,” she says, smoothing his hair. It’s as if she is having as much trouble not touching him as he is. “Though I like to think I had something to do with that gift, as well.”

“What do you mean?” He is eager—eager to learn more of her, of what it means that she is here, of where she has been. Has she been safe? Happy? Is she with Father? Does she remember him?

“Merlin often visits the other side. I have gotten to know him. He is quite…” She pauses. “I don’t think one word could ever describe Merlin.”

Arthur snorts at that, then lets out a soft laugh that he could snort at something his mother has said. “No,” he says. “I don’t think there is.”

It’s blowing Arthur’s mind a little bit, to be honest. That his mother and Merlin are friends. In the after life! And that they are here—they are both here! Returned to him! He does not think the gods have ever been so kind. That he has ever been so happy.

This reminds Arthur that he had fainted. He wants to be embarrassed about it, but, really, a lot happened to him in a very short amount of time, and he really hasn’t eaten in a while. Now that he’s thinking of it, he’s starving.

“Food!” He declares, grinning. “We—We should eat! A meal!” He laughs again. He feels giddy. A family meal with his mother and with Merlin—

He looks around. Then frowns. Fear grips him again.

After all, the price for a life is a life—

“Where is he?” Arthur exclaims, throwing the blankets off him. He jumps out of bed, heart hammering. “Merlin, he was here, wasn’t he? He—he didn’t—I didn’t—he’s not—”

“Calm down, Arthur,” his mother says, surging forward. She grabs his hands. “Merlin simply went out to give us a moment. He will return.”

Arthur’s pulse slows a little. “He’s… He’s here?” He clarifies. “He’s okay?”

“He’s okay,” Ygraine confirms.

Arthur relaxes. His mother is holding his hand. He thinks he could cy again. Soon, Merlin will return. Oh, perhaps he will even return with food and the three of them can sit down—four, maybe. Should he call Gwen down? Is it too soon to introduce her to his mother? Oh, to hell with it, he doesn’t care, he’ll invite all the round table when Merlin is back—

When Merlin is back.

From outside his chambers.

From the castle.

Where everyone except a very, very elite few, think that he is dead.

“Fuck!” He exclaims. Then, remembering he has a mother to chastise him now, he blushes. “I—I—apologize—” He realizes he has no idea what to call her.

Ygraine’s brow is pulled tight, as if she is confused. Then, after a moment, realization relaxes her face. “It’s okay, Arthur,” she says gently. She squeezes his hand before letting go and gently stepping back. When she looks at him, her expression is set stiff, kind but firm—the look of a royal, the one his father taught him. “You have every right to be wary of me. I—I know that you are not a child, that I have—if I have missed too much and you are not ready to view me as your mother, I would understand—”

“No!” Arthur exclaims. He can’t help it—he moves quickly, wrapping his arms around her. When he hugs her, he makes himself as small as he can. “No, no, don’t ever think that. Please!”

She hesitates only a brief moment before she wraps her arms around him. She cups the back of his head, pulling him to her shoulder. “Okay, my son.”

 Arthur’s heart soars. He cries again, tears coming out without permission. He feels weak, but in his mother’s arms, that weakness doesn’t feel unsafe.

Is this what he’s been missing? Is this how he could have felt as a child, like he was safe just because he was with her? He aches for the years he’s lost, for the fear he’s felt…

Then he reminds himself that no matter what it feels like right now, he is not a child. He is a king. And he has a duty to his people—and, more importantly, Merlin.

“Merlin is out there,” he says, his voice faintly muffled in his mother’s shoulder. He pulls away, straightening himself a little. He needs a bath, he knows, and he must look awful. But there’s no time for that. “And everyone in Camelot thinks him dead.”

Ygraine shrugs. “We’ll fix it,” she says, smiling at him. “After all, he may be a very clever and kind boy, but to most people here, he’s only a servant, yes? Court can’t have changed that much. Who really would notice if he showed back up?”

***

Merlin stares up at the ceiling, wondering if Arthur would forgive him if he turned his uncle into a smoldering pile of ash. After all, he did bring back his mother. Maybe he can convince him the spell did require a life, and he had to choose another De Bois. Arthur may be mad, but he’d get over it. Ygraine is lightyears better than Agravaine.

Merlin is an old, old, old man. He’s been around, say, seventeen billion hours or so. But this last hour? It’s been one of the worst.

It’s not like it’s the first time that Merlin has been accused of witchcraft. It’s not even the first time in Camelot. It’s just, he didn’t even do anything this time.

“I am not a sorcerer,” he drones again because it seems like the best option.

Obviously, Agravaine’s sword is as useless as his bony little hands, but Merlin’s getting a headache. He can’t really tell when he is. His memory feels bloated, like he’s just eaten an extra long Jimmy Johns sub. Like, he knows Agravaine easily but he also knows Jimmy Johns. So there’s something wrong here because Agravaine, pointedly, will never live to see Jimmy Johns.

Does that mean Merlin should kill him right now?

He contemplates it. He looks over at Gwaine, who’s standing just a little to the back and left of Agravaine. He looks anxious. Near tears, even.

Merlin frowns at him. Should I kill Agravaine? He tries to ask by wiggling his brows.

Gwaine nearly tears up. Merlin isn’t sure what that means. He mouths “you good?” and gets a flinch in response.

Oooookay. Whatever. Merlin looks back at Agravaine.

Smarmy freak.

“—and that’s why, I am so sorry to say, I must sentence Merlin with sorcery. His punishment… Death by fire.”

The room erupts. Some people are arguing, others are crying, and a few, Merlin notes with interest, are inching towards him as if to defend him.

“Where’s King Arthur?” Merlin calls. He shrugs out of his guards’ hold. They’re technically meant to be restraining him, but they aren’t all that invested. He’s wearing cuffs, at least, so he assumes that he doesn’t look like much of a threat. He steps just a little away, chains jingling, so they don’t grab him again.

“His Majesty is indisposed.” Agravaine dismisses.

Merlin belatedly remembers the spell he’d cast to keep nosy people from interrupting Ygraine and Arthur. Ugh. He needs to stop being such a good friend.

“So you’re sentencing me to burning alive because you, a guy with no real position in this court, thought I was dead?” Merlin clarifies. There’s sound around him again—murmuring, surprised. Shit. He probably shouldn’t have worded it like that. But… Well, it was true.

“Insolent!” Agravaine hisses. “Further proof of his sorcery!”

Merlin scoffs, throwing up his hands. This motion petrifies the people who believe Agravaine, so the guards grab him again, yanking him back. From his spot, Gwaine’s hand dips to his hilt. Merlin looks at him, narrowing his eyes and as inconspicuously as he can, he shakes his head. Gwaine’s brows pinch but then he nods back, just a jut of his chin, and Merlin relaxes.

“And,” Agravaine continues, and Merlin really does try not to roll his eyes. “It is most likely that he is responsible for the death of King Carleeon.”

Merlin freezes.

Two conflicting memories of the king—a man, killed by Arthur’s own hand in a forest, and a man, tied up and whispering to him about a destiny that didn’t make sense—war in his head.

Merlin’s head begins to ache. He pushes through it because, no matter which memory is real, neither of them include Merlin killing the king.

“I did no such thing!”

“He was slain in his own cell,” Agravaine continues, disdain dripping from his smarmy words.

“Merlin didn’t do that!” Lancelot cries. He steps forward, closer to Merlin, and two guards draw their swords into an X to stop him from moving closer. He turns, searching the crowd. “Leon!” He cries.

Merlin looks at the First Knight. Leon’s expression is one of open grief. He looks lost, and Merlin feels awful for it. He’s so young, this general of war, and he doesn’t deserve to carry the great loss on his shoulders that he does.

“No one but the king can lay law in this land,” Leon finally says, tearing his gaze from Merlin to Agravaine. He inclines his head, ever so slightly, “Though I am sure the king will appreciate your attempt at… Self delegation.”

A hum goes through the room. Because he knows it will offer Leon no favor, Merlin manages to bite down on his smirk. Yes, self delegation certainly is one way to describe Agravaine’s power-grubby hands.

The man in question looks apoplectic. Before he can respond, however, the doors swing open, and a panting Percival bursts in.

“He’s—on—his—way,” Percival manages to get out in big tufts of breath. Merlin raises his brows. He hadn’t even seen the guy leave.

Merlin had just been minding his own business, trying to help the two fainted guards, when another grabbed him by the arms and called him a ghost! He’d been dragged to the throne room and now was being accused of sorcery. Ghost or magician, pick your poison, Merlin thinks wryly.

“Who?” Agravaine asks with a sneer.

And then the doors swing open again, and Arthur comes striding in. He looks every inch the leader that he is. He takes in the whole room, each person, each position, with one quick sweep; his eyes darken and narrow. Merlin feels a shiver at the base of his spine. This—this is his king.

“Does someone want to tell me why my servant is being detained?”

If Merlin didn’t know him so well, he’d say that Arthur sounded bored. But there’s anxiety in his eyes, in the way his lips purse together, the way his shoulders are set and straight. Merlin tries to convey that he is okay. It must work because the pinch between his brow softens.

“Sire,” Agravaine says, all sickly-sweet suck up. “This can’t be your servant. As you yourself declared, he is dead.” Agravaine pauses and, with a truly comical attempt at acting, reels back. “Unless… That message came from the servant Guinevere. Why would she lie? Unless… She was trying to sow disarray in your court?”

Merlin scowls. He hates this motherfucker.

“After all, Merlin has been loyal to you for years, sire. But Guinevere… Well, she was close to the Lady Morgana, and after the business with her father… Now, don’t get testy,” he says in direction to the knights. “I’m only saying, what explanation is there, if Merlin isn’t dead, as she said? Perhaps it was a clever lie. Or perhaps Merlin did indeed use sorcery.”

Arthur’s face pales. He looks to Merlin—Merlin raises his brows. Give me a chance, and I’ll give them something to talk about, he thinks.

Arthur looks around—at his knights, his advisors, his council, his servants—at his people.

Then he looks to Merlin again.

Despite the stress of the situation, Merlin can’t help but smile.

Things are still confusing to him—he feels like he just woke up after a long, long nap. Timelines are shifting, memories are jotting into place in quick, whip-fast ways. But when his eyes lock on Arthur’s, everything stills.

There’s no less confusion, but… Well, he so does love seeing Arthur.

Merlin soaks him in the way he would the first full day of spring. He leans in, just a little, his chest and toes and nose all a little closer. He searches his gaze, cataloguing it against the thousands of other times he’s searched his gaze, deciding where to place this one memory. He feels sharper than he has in ages, by gods. Arthur’s hair is dirty, oily, his shoulders stiff in a way that Merlin knows means he’s tired, exhausted, really. But that’s all okay—Merlin will run him a bath once they deal with this whole regicide accusation thing.

Arthur’s eyes, surprisingly, are searching him, too. Usually, when Merlin does this catalogue work, Arthur is busy doing something else. In most of Merlin’s memories, Arthur doesn’t let his own gaze linger on Merlin. He certainly never catalogues back.

But then, things are different now, aren’t they? Merlin needs to sit down with a cup of tea and a journal and a few people to bounce questions off of to determine exactly how different, but here and now, Arthur knows his magic, knows his destiny, and, he thinks, knows him.

Oh, but it feels so nice. Warmth like laughter in his chest, joy like the first cup of coffee in a cramped London apartment, anticipation like the first biscuit during the holidays. But, no, not so much like those things at all—actually, this is entirely unique. Warmth, like Arthur’s hand when it grazes against Merlin’s shoulder in a gentle but firm squeeze; joy, like Arthur’s crinkled smile that he gets only on the happiest of days; anticipation, like the way Arthur looks at him after a particularly dangerous day, already knowing that he’ll be there, waiting.

Merlin’s heart is so full.

Who cares if a few people want to accuse him of murder or witchcraft or whatever? He will deal with whatever consequences. After all, he’s done nothing wrong. He was dead, now he’s not. Big whooping deal.

Except, of course, it is a big whooping deal if you’re not Merlin. Arthur looks absolutely devastated. Merlin can practically see steam coming from his head as he tries to think of a solution. Merlin was dead, obviously, so he isn’t sure how he got to Arthur’s chambers, but he knows Morgana killed him—and, oh, oh, Morgana! He has got to think about all of that soon—so one would assume, or, if predisposed, bet good money, on the fact that someone had to carry him from outside the castle to inside the castle, and, all in all, at least a few people saw his corpse.

He wracks his brain. Okay, so, it will probably cause a big fuss if he admits to having magic right now. Arthur knows, yes, but the rest of Camelot is behind the times, so to say. And then Arthur would be forced to deal with a trial. Merlin supposes he could let everyone kill him, then come back and wear a disguise for the next fifty or so years. He had this fantastic alias in the sixteen-nineties that he thinks Gwaine would get a kick out of. But then, long dead Ygraine Pendragon is walking around these halls somewhere, so that will need an explanation later, and so maybe Merlin should wait to let them kill him until they see her so that there’s someone good to blame. After all, he did at least do that. He didn’t kill Caerleon.

Actually, probably it was Agravaine. God, Merlin hates that guy. He slits his gaze back to Agravaine. Smug, greasy bastard. All this to avenge his sister—and she’s not even dead anymore! Like, come on.

Merlin wonders if Agravaine will repent when Ygraine comes out. More likely, he’ll do something equally weasel-like. He hopes Ygraine punches the shit out of him.

“Gwen would never lie about such a thing,” Arthur defends with tremendous venom.

Merlin forces himself back into the present—a surprisingly difficult task. He narrows his eyes, clearing his throat, in an effort to really pay attention to what Arthur is saying. Except that the sound draws attention again, and Arthur’s eyes slide back to his. All at once, that devastation is back. Merlin frowns. Uh oh. Arthur probably read something into that throat clearing, didn’t he? Oh, spectacular idiot, he’s going to do something stupid—

“Merlin is back because of me,” Arthur says grandly.

Merlin’s eyes widen. He waves his hands, the jingling sound of his cuffs muffled by the murmurs of the court.

Arthur just strides right over, standing directly in front of Merlin. He looks at him for a moment, then a smile curls his lips.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Merlin whispers out of the side of his mouth.

Then, to his utter surprise, Arthur winks. “Trust me,” he says. And, because time and age can’t really heal all wounds, Merlin’s heart flutters and he nods, warm all over.

Arthur turns his back to Merlin, hands out, and, in a strong, clear voice, says, “I, King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, used magic to bring Merlin back from the dead.”

Chapter Text

The idea that anyone, anyone at all, would suggest that Guinevere is even an ounce less loyal to Camelot than he himself is, is laughable. Worse, it’s infuriating. And knowing that it’s coming from Agravaine is sending Arthur into a frenzy of emotion.

“Gwen would never lie about such a thing!” Arthur says fiercely, his heart beating hard in his chest. Though he is king and he cannot be overruled, he remembers the fear in his heart the last time Guinevere was accused of sorcery, of the feebleness of his own power in the face of his father. Though his father is long dead, the fear in Arthur’s muscles. He won’t let anyone, uncle or otherwise, rake Gwen’s name over the coals—not when he knows just how hard it is to pull her back from it.

Then Merlin clears his throat.

And Arthur’s heart falls to his shoes. His eyes dart over to his manservant, and his heart somehow beats even harder. That fear moves from his chest to his belly, curling like fingers around the ropes of his intestines. God, defending Gwen sounded like condemning Merlin, didn’t it? And Arthur can’t—he can’t risk that! Yes, Merlin came back to life—to him, to him!—but that doesn’t guarantee that he’d do it again, no matter what Gaius says. And besides, after all he’s done, the very least Merlin deserves is to not be killed for doing the one thing Arthur asked of him.

Everything in him softens. For once, Merlin is the picture perfect servant. He did the one thing Arthur needed: he came home.

“Merlin is back because of me,” Arthur says softly.

Merlin’s eyes widen. He waves his hands, as if telling him to stop, but Arthur doesn’t need to hear that. He feels something shoot through him, sharp like lightning, strong like meaning. He feels it underneath his tongue like honey. He walks over, standing in front of Merlin. His hands tingle with the urge to reach out, touch him, feel his pulse beneath his fingertips.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Merlin whispers.

Arthur can’t help but smile indulgently. Always trying to protect him, his sorcerer. Now, for once, it’s Arthur’s turn. A thrill runs through him. This may in fact be the one time he truly is protecting Merlin—from consequence, at least, from inconvenience, from fear. He puffs his chest a little and offers a quick, hopefully reassuring wink.

 “Trust me,” he says.

Arthur turns his back to Merlin, hands out, and, in a strong, clear voice, says, “I, King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, used magic to bring Merlin back from the dead.”

Arthur isn’t sure which person he should pay attention to first. His knights all stagger back, floored. It makes Arthur’s lips twitch down in a frown. After all, they actually know what’s happening. But he ignores it and looks at Agravaine next.

His uncle looks…

Angry.

Arthur ducks his head, feeling sick. It’s too much like his father’s anger. Of course Agravaine is angry; he hates magic as much as Uther did, after all. Because of his mother—

He feels a burst of fear. What if Agravaine doesn’t accept that his mother is back? Will his love for his sister outweigh his hatred of magic?

All of a sudden, it becomes imperative that Agravaine understand.

He takes a small step forward until Merlin makes a small, choked little noise. Still attuned to Merlin after near a day of waiting for that still chest to move, Arthur spins around to take him in first.

Merlin’s eyes catch his, and for a brief moment, everything is right with the world. Merlin shakes his head, small and almost not noticeable, so Arthur nods back, just as imperceptivity, pleased at the way Merlin’s shoulders relax.

“This is something that will be discussed,” he says, turning back to face the shocked crowd. “Likely at length, and likely by more than the people in this room. But it is late. We will all adjourn tomorrow, and I will answer your questions then. But for now, be assured that as your king, no treason was committed and nor will Merlin be spending the night in chains. Council, tomorrow, will require all of your rapt attention.” He leaves it at that, grabbing Merlin by the elbow, and all but dragging him out of the room.

There are cries of confusion, a few shouts of “sorcery!” and more than one huddle of whisperers. For all that it is going to screw him in the morning, Arthur just keeps walking. He winds his way all the way up to the hallway with his chambers before he hesitates.

“My…” He can’t say it. Not when anyone can hear. Not at all maybe.

But Merlin, of course, catches on quickly. He nods, eyes narrowing as he tilts his head, as if considering, before he nods a second time, firm and sure. Then his hand slips against Arthur’s.

Arthur’s heart trips over itself as he realizes, oh, Merlin is trying to hold my hand. With incredible determined, he relaxes his muscles enough to part his fingers. Like it’s easy, Merlin intertwines their fingers. Arthur’s eyes dart back to Merlin’s face, sure he’ll look as apprehensive and confused as Arthur feels, but there’s nothing but casual determination as he juts a chin towards the staircase at the end of the hall.

“That way,” he says, and then uses that hand to tug Arthur with him.

Arthur follows. As they climb up the stairs, his heart moves faster than his feet. He feels so out of it. But, of course, even Gaius would say that was normal. He’s had a hell of a few days, hasn’t he? He’s dizzy with it. Merlin shoots him a wink as he scales up the winding tall staircase, and Arthur laughs, bright and pleased and dizzy, dizzy, dizzy.

When they finally get to the top, Merlin drops his hand, and Arthur only briefly frowns and manages to hide it well. Merlin pushes open the door, letting the fresh cold night air in. Arthur shoulders his way out of the door, laughing again at the little secret spot Merlin has found for him.

It’s a small turret, almost the highest in the castle, facing the eastern wall. The space here is so small they don’t even have a guard stationed; no more than a single chair would fit. As it is, when the door slams behind them, it pushes Merlin into Arthur’s space; or perhaps, Arthur’s into Merlin’s.

“I should have known you’d know this place,” Arthur says, shaking his head. He looks out at the sky, the stars twinkling against the growing darkness. Arthur thinks that the stars look familiar; he thinks he’s got a few of his own inside his chest, lighting him up just as profoundly.

“I should have known you’d already know it, too,” Merlin says.

Arthur’s brows raise and he turns to him. “Disappointed?”

Merlin shrugs. “Maybe.” When Arthur just keeps his brows raised, Merlin smiles a bit sheepishly. “Maybe I wanted to show you something special.”

Arthur grins. “You already have.”

Merlin’s expression is soft. Or maybe that’s Arthur’s own gaze, softening the whole world; it feels like a miracle to look at Merlin.

“I would think you have questions,” Merlin says, dipping his head. He shifts, his arm brushing against Arthur’s.

Blaming the space between them, Arthur shifts, too. He has to notch one of his feet between Merlin’s—their toes are lined up perfectly now. He places one hand out, curling it around the stone edge of the wall.

“About a thousand,” he admits wryly.

Merlin breathes out a soft laugh. “Well,” he says, gesturing—the motion again brushes him against Arthur.

Arthur wasn’t joking. He does have about a million questions. Maybe a million and two. But right now, he can only think of one.

“Are you… Are you… you… still?”

Merlin cocks his head to the side. His searching gaze looks over Arthur, taking him apart bit by bit. It’s not the first time Merlin has done that to him; but typically, it’s done quite quickly, thorough and perfunctory. This time, it feels slower. Or maybe it’s just that Arthur is finally, actually, paying attention.

He wonders if this is the answer. That it doesn’t matter if Merlin is still Merlin, the way Arthur means it; because Arthur himself is not still Arthur, not the way he used to be. Not twenty-four hours ago. Not a week ago. Certainly, certainly not a year ago.

He is different. Changed. A phoenix, killed—or perhaps, a phoenix who leapt from the tip of the world, assuming its wings would carry its weight, only to plummet hard and fast to its death. Then, rising again. Or, perhaps, being raised.

Merlin is still searching Arthur’s expression. Arthur stands straight up, full to attention, the way he did when his father would assess him during a knight’s training. Arthur aches with the desire to not be found wanting; to be given a nod of approval.

What he is given is so much more, it takes his breath away. Merlin’s lips twitch up into a soft smile that slowly gains traction, growing wider and wider until the edges of his mouth dimples and his eyes crinkle. He reaches out, ruffling Arthur’s hair with tremendous fondness, and shakes his head.

“I’m yours, Arthur,” he answers simply, like that’s what Arthur was asking.

And, maybe, it was.

Because Arthur’s heart soars at this answer. He finds himself beaming back, grinning wider than he thinks he ever has. It actually hurts a little, causing an ache in his cheeks.

He isn’t sure how long they stand there, just grinning at one another, but eventually the moment fades. It fades soft, the way the sun sets, so Arthur doesn’t even miss it; it still feels warm under his chest.

They turn back to look at the night sky. If Arthur presses in a little closer, adjusting his body to curve towards Merlin’s, no one says anything.

Merlin has his hands on the edge of the stone, leaning forwards. Arthur scoots a little bit closer, wondering if he can hear Merlin’s heart beat if he tries hard enough, mimicking Merlin’s pose so that they’re both resting their forearms on the stone.

But Arthur’s movement makes Merlin pull back. Arthur is bereft for a moment before Merlin slides even closer. Merlin lifts one hand from the stone and stretches his arm behind Arthur, coming to rest on the other side of Arthur’s arm. The new position fully puts Merlin’s arm around Arthur’s back, down close near his waist. It’s not quite a hold, not quite intimate, but it still makes Arthur’s heart pick up pace in his chest like a horse that saw something sinister out of the corner of its eye. He’s grateful for the gentle quiet they’re sitting in because his pulse is so loud in his ears, he knows he wouldn’t be able to hear anything at all.

The longer Merlin doesn’t move or say anything at all, Arthur eventually manages to calm his body’s reaction. Once his heartbeat is regular again, he takes stock of his feelings.

His muscles are stiff, held tight like if he so much as exhales against Merlin’s arm, he’ll tear himself away from Arthur. His hand is twitching, like it wants to leap up and brush against Merlin’s, so close by. At the same time, his lungs feel full and steady; his heart feels strong and sure. He feels a sense of serenity that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

Perhaps, Arthur thinks a bit wildly, this is what it feels like to win.

“Do you see that star, the one right there?” Merlin lifts the hand that’s around Arthur, pointing a long finger towards a bright cluster of stars. Arthur squints, trying to follow. “The bright one.”

“They’re all bright,” Arthur mumbles.

“No, that one!” Merlin jabs a finger. “The one that looks like it’s the crown jewel on a sitting king—”

“There is no sitting king—”

“Use your imagination, Arthur—”

“So I should imagine this king in the sky—”

“No, look at where I’m pointing!”

“I am!”

“You clotpole, right there—” Then Merlin steps behind Arthur, hips against Arthur’s backside, and reaches around his head. He grabs Arthur’s head on either side and tilts him to look where he wants.

That horse in Arthur’s chest is spooked again. It starts racing from the danger out of the corner of its eye.

Arthur swallows hard, trying to see what Merlin wants him to.

“I—” He’s trying. He is. But all the stars look the same, and even with Merlin guiding him, he can’t see. To his horror, Arthur feels his eyes start to well with tears. He feels foolish. Stupid. Useless. He can’t do anything right, can he? He can’t even spot a star—

“Let me help,” Merlin says gently, his breath blowing warm against the back of Arthur’s neck. Arthur’s whole spine erupts into shivers, and he thinks do that again, and then Merlin leans in even closer, and the soft, unruly edges of Merlin’s hair tickles against Arthur’s cheek, as he whispers, “Ætíe mé þá þé ic séce.”

A thin, soft gold light swirls in the air, flitting through the sky like a lightning bug. It darts around in a circle for a moment before shooting high into the sky—it collides with a star and both the magic and the star light up bright as a candlestick for a moment, allowing Arthur to see what Merlin wanted him to see.

The star is so beautiful. It is also, unfortunately, right exactly where Merlin was pointing.

“Show off,” Arthur mutters. He can feel Merlin’s responding laugh against his back.

“Now, I’ll ask again,” he says patiently like a tutor. Arthur rolls his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek to hide his smile. “Do you see that star?”

“Yes.” Arthur tries very hard to sound put-out.

Though he can’t see him, Arthur is certain Merlin is grinning.

“In about two thousand years, I buy that star for you.” Merlin says.

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat.

He stares at the star, his eyes blurring and his lungs wheezing. He doesn’t even know where to start.

Luckily, Merlin never knows where to stop, so he just keeps talking.

“The exact time is a bit fuzzy. I never can keep track of the years. All those kings re-naming years, different depending on the continent and the century. But in what calls itself 1979, a horrible little company started selling people the ability to unofficially name stars. I thought it was barbaric at first, but then, after a second, I thought it was hilarious. So I got absolutely smashed on Tequila Sunrises—and, by the way, you’d love those—and I got sentimental, as I was far too often that year, and, long story short, in a very, very, very long time, in a very small corner of an office, there is a document that officially names that very star, Arthur.”

 The words settle around him like water. He feels like he’s wading in them.

Unable to do anything else, he turns to face Merlin. That, he thinks a bit wildly, is what a knight would do. Be brave.

Because of Merlin’s arms around him, the movement is difficult; he’s constrained by the very, very small amount of space he’s got, which pushes his back to the stone wall, and presses his knees against Merlin’s. Merlin’s got an arm blocking either side of him. Arthur has no idea whatsoever where to put his own arms. He ends up stretching theme out and, whether it’s for lack of anything better or because of the tremors he’s fighting, he clenches his fists into Merlin’s tunic.

Merlin’s expression shifts, surprise melting into a sheepish sort of apology. “I’m sorry,” he says, ducking his head a bit. His eyes fall, and Arthur lets out a grunt, squeezing tighter. “I shouldn’t—Things are complicated, aren’t they?”

“Gaius told me. Lancelot did, too. But…” Arthur pauses. He shakes his head, licking his lips. “It’s hard to even conceive of,” he admits.

Merlin inclines his head. “I know,” he says with a trembling sort of laugh. “It’s hard for me some days, too.”

“Your memories are back then?”

Arthur doesn’t realize he’s whispering until Merlin whispers back, “For now.”

He swallows hard. “You think you may lose them again?”

“I think that we are in uncharted territory,” he says slowly. “Which, for me, is saying something.”

Unexpectedly, Arthur bursts into laughter.

Arthur doesn’t know what does it. Maybe it’s the way he says it, not a brag but apologetic, like Arthur might be annoyed that Merlin knows more than him, or maybe it’s because of how dangerous this all is, his dead mother sitting a few flights of stairs away, his dead best friend’s heart beating beneath his palms—at this thought, Arthur flattens his hands on Merlin’s chest, relaxing a little when he feels that steady thrum—or maybe it’s that Arthur is very, very, very tired.

After a moment, Merlin’s lips twitch up. Then his brows go, then his hands. And, before long, they’re both laughing, borderline hysterical. Arthur’s side is starting to hurt from a cramping muscle, and his lungs are empty, and he throws his head back and stares at the stars as he laughs and laughs and laughs, Merlin’s delighted chuckles echoing around him in the night.

Slowly, their laughter subsides. Arthur leans back, grinning. He lets himself have a single, soft moment of weakness, allowing his eyes to drink in the heady sight of Merlin, alive and well and flushed with laughter. It has been a long, long time since Arthur has laughed like that. Since he’s seen Merlin laugh like that. He vows to himself that no matter how dark the night gets, he will ensure Merlin has reason to laugh until his belly aches no less than once a fortnight. Perhaps, he should get a court jester, just to ensure Merlin’s amusement.

After a few moments of this, he realizes that Merlin is drinking him in, too. They both seem to come back to themselves at the same time.

Merlin gives him one more twitching smile, before he steps back. A cool brush of air is able to now move between them. “What now, Arthur?”

Arthur looks at where his hands are on Merlin’s chest. Now that he’s stepped away, it looks silly—his arms are extended, flat against Merlin, like he may push him away.

I’d never push him, Arthur thinks absently, in fact, I should pull him in—I should tell him how glad I am to see him alive, tell him thank you for Mother. No, I should show him. I should embrace him., I should kiss—

All at once, Arthur drops his hands from Merlin. He stumbles backwards, but there’s nowhere to go except over the castle, and Merlin’s got a fist around his elbow now, tugging him nearer, and Arthur panics, flailing about a bit, because he can’t go closer, can’t Merlin see that he’s not well—

“Arthur?” Merlin asks gently, his brow pinching with concern as he rakes his gaze over Arthur. The look is so tender that it feels almost intimate to see, almost dangerous. He fights the childish urge to close his eyes so that Merlin can’t see how affected he is.

He opens his mouth, aiming for a wry joke to diffuse this situation, but then Merlin’s fist turns soft, and he curls it up Arthur, around his shoulder, a hold he’s done a thousand times, and one that Arthur thought he’d never feel again, and he murmurs, soft and steady, “Arthur, are you okay? Please, let me help—”

Oh, hell.

Arthur surges forward, barely registering the look of surprise on Merlin’s face, and he throws his arms around Merlin’s shoulders. One hand sinks greedy into Merlin’s hair, the other curves around his sharp jaw, and then, because he is ill, because he is exhausted, because he is afraid, because he is grateful, because he wants to, Arthur closes the space between them, and with one purposeful gesture, kisses Merlin.

Chapter Text

At first, Merlin stands there, shock radiating down his spine, so strong and unfamiliar that it almost feels like pain. He can’t breathe; he thinks, perhaps, his heart isn’t even beating.

Then, against his mouth, Arthur’s lips twitch, pressing a phantom’s breadth harder, and, for the second time today, Merlin comes alive.

He surges forward with all grace of a military attack—he’s got hands gripping Arthur’s biceps hard enough to bruise, his knee knocks between Arthur’s so he can slot their hips together, and his tongue slides against Arthur’s bottom lip with such precision, Arthur releases a trapped, groaning sound when he finally parts those lips.

Merlin doesn’t waste a second. His lips move with careful derision—for almost two thousand years, Merlin has let this moment right here sit at the forefront of every first kiss he’s ever had.

Over the years, Merlin has felt love. He has felt companionship. He has felt intimacy. He has felt all these things with genuine adoration and consideration and respect and desire for his partners. He’s not so smitten with Arthur Pendragon to think that he’s never wanted someone else, never enjoyed kissing another. He’s not so unkind as to have loved someone with another man’s face behind his eyelids.

But… First kisses are different. Were different. Will be different.

Each time Merlin presses his lips to someone new, his heart and magic twist, desperate for recognition, never finding it. He’s usually able to push that down. Over the centuries, it’s gotten easier.

But this time—this time, when Arthur sighs into Merlin’s mouth and Merlin lifts one hand to curl around the nape of Arthur’s neck, licking his way into the man’s mouth, and Merlin’s magic flares in hope—this time, it gets what it’s looking for.

Merlin places one hand on Arthur’s chest, the other curled around his hip. Arthur’s tunic has risen up, just enough that there’s a thin strip of soft, warm skin that Merlin can feel. He runs the pad of his thumb over that exposed skin, heat like straight from the fire licking up his spine at the sensation. Then Arthur’s lips part beneath his own. Merlin slicks his tongue across Arthur’s bottom lip, reveling in the way he can feel Arthur’s heart skip like rocks over the water beneath his palm.

He can’t stop. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop. He kisses Arthur until his head swims and his lungs are aching so badly, he thinks he may pass out. Only then does he part, and even so, only enough to let them both sip the cool night air. Arthur’s voice is ragged. After so many years of being right at Arthur’s side for every battle, faux or fatal, Merlin knows what Arthur sounds like breathless. But he never imagined it could sound so sweet.

He closes the gap between them again, peppering soft kisses across Arthur’s soft, giving lips. They’re parted just a bit, like he’s shocked, and Merlin molds them against his own. He’s sweet as berries, and Merlin licks his way into his mouth, mesmerized by the shape of his tongue and teeth. Arthur’s hands find tentative purchase on Merlin’s waist, and the feeling of it, of those thick, broad hands covering Merlin’s hips, is enough to make his magic sing.

They separate just in time for Merlin to lose control.

Magic shoots out from every pore of Merlin’s body. The force of it sends Arthur reeling backwards. Merlin throws a hand out, fingers tight in Arthur’s tunic to keep him from spilling over the edge of the parapet. Arthur’s eyes widen as his gaze flickers across Merlin’s face, then body, and then the sky.

Arthur’s jaw falls open. It takes Merlin a moment to care because he’s distracted by how swollen and pink Arthur’s lips are. But when Arthur blinks a few times, letting out a scratchy, ragged, “Merlin?” he finally looks up.

All the stars in the sky are beaming gold.

Immediately, Merlin wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

Arthur looks at him now, wonder and fear on his face, and Merlin’s so uncomfortable he wonders if this will be the first time he ever dies of embarrassment.

“Was that…?”

Gods above, Merlin’s face has never felt so hot. “Wasn’t me!” he lies quickly. But then the wonder drops from Arthur’s face and fear replaces it, which really backs Merlin into a corner. Groaning, he scrubs his hands down his face. “No, fine, it was me.”

“You… Lit up the sky,” Arthur says. When Merlin nods from behind his hands, Arthur repeats himself. “You lit up the sky.”

“Yes, alright, but don’t get a big head about it!” Merlin points an accusatory finger at him.

Arthur’s eyes crinkle as he looks away, jaw leaping. For a moment, Merlin is worried he’s upset. Tosser, Merlin thinks wildly. You kissed me first! But then Arthur ducks his chin, eyes darting to the ground, and the subtle blush of pink on his cheeks gives him away.

Merlin’s ire, and his heart, melt like butter.

“Arthur,” he says, then stops. That’s it. That’s all he needed to say.

Arthur’s smile grows wider.

Before they can say anything else, as if there’s anything else to say at all, the door swings wide open, and a panting Leon looks around wildly with his sword drawn.

Merlin frowns. “Don’t tell me you ran up those stairs with that sword out,” he admonishes.

Leon looks from Merlin to Arthur to the sky.

“There’s—” he gasps, which likely has less to do with shock and more to do with exertion, if Merlin had to guess. “The sky—”

“My bad,” Merlin says, shrugging. Arthur coughs, which is a very un-subtle way to hide a laugh, and Leon gives him a puckered look like he sucked on a lemon.

“You lit up the sky?” Leon asks.

It sounds far less impressive, and, in fact, almost inconvenient, when Leon says it.

Merlin makes a face. He is aiming to look put upon, but not pout; from the way Arthur’s valiantly trying not to laugh, he doesn’t think he quite manages it.

“The sky was quite dark, wasn’t it?” Merlin tries to defend.

Arhtur, daintily, disguises another laugh behind a cough.

“Need something, Sir Leon?” Arthur asks, sprawling his arms out like an open invitation. Merlin has to bite hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning wildly like a madman.

“Yes, actually,” Leon says. He’s having a hard time tearing his gaze away from Merlin. Merlin just raises an eyebrow and waits. Eventually, Leon gives in, and turns to face Arthur. “You’re wanted by your uncle.”

Arthur scoffs. “I told him, it can wait.”

“Well, then, you should know he’s on his way here now.” Leon inclines his head. “Hence my sprinting.”

That’s unfortunate. Being interrupted by Leon is annoying. Being interrupted by Agravaine is downright infuriating.

As soon as Merlin has a quick nap and a sandwich, he’s going to deal with Arthur’s treacherous, conniving uncle. The thought brings him a bit of pleasure. He glances at Arthur, wondering at once if he will be okay with all of Merlin’s plans—which, he’ll admit, quite a few require near total control over the crown’s decision making—and if he’ll have to lie to get what needs to be done, done. He really hopes not. He wants the lying to be behind them.

But then, Arthur’s not thinking about the future or any of that. Instead, he’s just frowning at Leon.

“Thank you, Leon,” Merlin says, because clearly Arthur can’t.

Arthur startles, then nods. “Yes, thank you for the warning.”

“I did beat him to the stairwell,” Leon offers.

Merlin grins. “Then you sprinted up! I’m sure we’ve got a bit of time.”

Leon shakes his head. “If he saw the sky like I did, I’m sure he’ll be coming up as fast as he can.”

“Then let’s get out of here,” Merlin says. “Before he shows up.”

Arthur laughs a little. He leans in, nudging Merlin with his shoulder. Merlin’s heart warms at the gesture, as endearingly intimate as someone else caressing his cheek.

“Scared of my uncle now that he’s accused you of treason?” Arthur teases. He’s grinning, and even Leon is smiling now.

Merlin laughs brightly. “Of course not!” He replies. “It’s just that if we’re both up here, I’m going to throw him off the edge of the castle.”

And suddenly, both Arthur and Leon’s faces lose their smiles, and everyone’s looking at Merlin like he’s said something outrageous.

“What?” He says self-consciously. Then the door swings open once more, and Agravaine storms out.

Merlin turns, eyes bright at the idea of dealing with this right now, and then is grabbed by the ear and tugged out of the little secluded parapet by the rather terrified looking First Knight.

***

After being unceremoniously manhandled out of the way by Leon, Merlin has been put in time out.

Arthur is out there, talking to that scummy asshole Agravaine, and Merlin has been told he can’t leave Gaius’s chambers. Talk about unfair!

Merlin knows that the guards Leon apologetically stationed there can’t really stop him—hell, Leon must know that, too—but since Leon said it was technically for his safety in case people upset with Arthur’s decree come to take matters into their own hands, Merlin is forced to pretend like it’s a good idea. He doesn’t want anyone to get a complex about how little he needs their protection.

Merlin bounces his knees up and down, chewing on the inside of his thumb nail. He wants to go talk to Arthur. He’d also like to kiss him again. Or, if not allowed to do either of those things, he’d like to check in on Ygraine. He did resurrect her. He’s kind of responsible for her now. He thinks of a brilliant, weird little woman he met once—Mary, her name was—and the novel she wrote. He thinks, in a way, he’s got a sort of parental duty to Ygraine, forcing life into her.

“Merlin?” Gaius asks, and Merlin startles.

He looks up, smiling. He waves. “Hi, Gaius. Can you believe neither one of us is dead? Pretty incredible, isn’t it?”

Gaius’s expression is borderline unreadable. Merlin feels a stab of something in his gut, almost like pain, and he goes back to looking at the door. The door doesn’t hurt to look at. The door doesn’t care that he’s different.

Gaius walks over, anyway, sitting tentatively on the edge of the bench beside him. He lifts a hand. From the corner of Merlin’s eye, he watches as Gaius hesitates, then, steeling himself, places a hand on Merlin’s knee.

“Tell me, my boy. How are you feeling?”

Merlin smiles. “I’m in great spirits, Gaius, fear not.”

Gaius smiles back, though it is small. “I am glad to hear it. But… I meant more… Physically.”

“Ah,” Merlin says, nodding. “Because I was dead.”

Gaius blinks rapidly, nodding, too. “I… Well, yes. That.”

“You shouldn’t fret, Gaius.”

Merlin considers the question, taking stock.

He feels alright, he thinks. He’s a bit hungry, and he’s sure he’s dehydrated. He could use some soup. Perhaps Gaius will make that soup he does with the pheasant stock, the one he made at Yuletide once…

Focus, Merlin, he chastises himself. He is meant to be thinking. How does he feel…?

Merlin feels swollen.

Yes, that’s it.

“Bloated,” he answers.

Gaius blinks. “Have you had much to eat?”

“No, I’m starving!” He is glad Gaius is such a good physician as to realize this. “Perhaps the pheasant soup could be nice, I think I remember you saying that.”

“But you are bloated?”

Merlin realizes his misstep. “I’m not physically bloated. It’s like… Well, it’s like my mind is stuffed to the brim!” He taps the side of his head. “There’s a lot going on in there.”

Gaius searches his gaze. Merlin frowns.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Gaius suggests.

Merlin groans. “That will take ages.”

“Well, you can tell me as I get started on supper.” He says firmly, no wiggle room to get out of it.

Merlin perks up. “What are you thinking? Not the pheasant soup, right? I mean, we could do pheasant soup, if that’s what you’re wanting…”

Gaius sighs heavily. “Go get me that pot, boy.”

Merlin begrudgingly decides to help with dinner. As he talks, nudging Gaius towards all the decisions he wants made, (“Don’t use that chicken, Gaius, look over there—no, I did not magic pheasant here! Yes, of course, you already had pheasant!”) and devotes a good amount of energy to sounding less uncertain about the things he doesn’t know.

Gaius still ends the conversation looking apoplectic.

“You’ve played with forces beyond your control, Merlin,” he despairs.

Merlin stirs the soup. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“A life is always paid for with another,” Gaius explains.

Merlin demonstrates that he is in fact a very good nephew—a devoted pupil, a caring friend—when he does not roll his eyes.

“You can’t possibly know what the consequences will be for bringing back Ygraine, for playing with life and death—”

“Life and death has played with me, Gaius.”

Merlin sets the spoon down. He wants to hold grace for the old man whom he loves so much and has missed so dearly. But Merlin… Merlin is not a child. He hasn’t been a child in a long, long time. And as good as it feels to pretend, to be under Gaius’s warm tutelage, he can’t pretend to not have lived the life he has.

Still, he loves Gaius. So he reaches out a hand, smiling when Gaius takes his.

“I have lived hundreds of lives,” Merlin says softly. “I have died hundreds of times.”

Gaius’s face crumples. Merlin shakes his head.

“No, it’s okay. I have died, and I have lived, but this?” He gestures around him. “To be here, to be alive, with you, Gaius, with my friends, with—” he shakes his head again. “To be here, is far greater a gift than life could give me. Than deathcould give me.”

Gaius’s eyes are swimming with tears. “Then who? Who gave you the gift? Who sent you back?”

Merlin leans back in his chair. He smiles widely, gesturing. “Isn’t it obvious?” He shifts forward, winking. “It must have just been me.”

“And that gives you the right to bring Ygraine here?” Gaius wonders.

Merlin considers that. “The right? Perhaps not. But the power?” He offers Gaius his best, most earnest smile. “That, I’ve got in spades.”

Gaius looks away.

Merlin feels wrongfooted. What has he done wrong?

“The druids said that the magic within you would burn you alive,” Gaius reminds him. Or tells him. Did Merlin know that already?

“But I’m not even hot,” Merlin protests.

Gaius shakes his head. “You toy with life and death. You toy with destiny. What have you changed since you’ve been here? What once foretold will now not come to pass?”

Merlin throws his hands out. “Well, I don’t know!”

“That’s precisely my point!” Gaius snaps. “You are reckless!”

Merlin recoils, as if slapped. “She didn’t deserve to be dead.”

Gaius sighs heavily. “Rarely is it so that one does.”

Merlin looks away, jaw clenching. He knows that’s true. His first life, his second, his hundredth—how many times did he lose someone, unfairly, unjustly? And that’s just him. Over and over again, people are dying.

And Merlin chose to wake up Ygraine for sentiment.

For love.

For Arthur.

"I worry, Merlin," Gaius says, slowly, as he leans away. "That you are forgetting why you came back here in the first place."

"I came back for Arthur," Merlin says instantly. Then he frowns, and Gaius frowns, and he thinks, is that true? Is he back for Arthur?

Was he here for Arthur last time?

Was he born for Arthur? Does he live for Arthur?

His head starts to ache; something like heat blooms behind his eyes. Maybe Gaius is right. Maybe he has forgotten something.

But is that so wrong? Is it so wrong that he loves Arthur, so wholly, so encompassing, that he wanted to bring him joy? That he, a little bit, messed with the fabric of magic to get his way?

Hasn’t he done that before?

And where did that get him?

***

Merlin dries his hands on a worn, once-blue cloth. He looks around the chambers, his chest glowing with satisfaction. Gaius is asleep on a chair, a book half-opened and balanced on his belly. The fire is warm, crackling in the corner as it dies out. The dishes are clean, the rooms are turned down, and soon, Merlin will be able to rest in his bed in Camelot, with all his memories to keep him company.

His head does still hurt. He had hoped that the soup and water would help him fight this dehydration headache, but it turns out, waking up from the dead takes its toll on the body. Oh, well. He can deal with that tomorrow.

Merlin is debating between heading to sleep and checking on Ygraine when a soft, church-mouse knock on the chamber doors distracts him. He tiptoes across the room, creaking open the door. He hopes whoever is here will be satisfied by Merlin’s help so that he doesn’t have to wake Gaius.

But then, it’s not a patient or a guard here to drag him off. It’s just… Arthur.

Arthur, in his sleep shirt and pants, his boots on but unlaced. His hair messy, like his hands have been running through it for hours. His eyes are a bit red-rimmed, but not so much that Merlin’s concerned about it. He takes him in, first as an assessment, and then a second time, just for him, because it curls a warmth beneath his breastbone that he wants to cultivate, blow air into like fire in the woods.

“You should know—” Arthur begins, his usual loud, prattish voice carrying easily through the stone walls.

Merlin juts forward, placing one extended finger across his lips. Arthur’s eyes widen, comically round, as his face flushes immediately with that signature Pendragon red. Merlin grins.

“Shh,” he whispers, just to watch Arthur’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Gaius is sleeping.”

Arthur’s face relaxes into acceptance. Then, heart beating in his chest, he slips his hand into Arthur’s, and he tugs him into the chambers. He closes the door carefully, then steps out of his boots. He waits, watching Arthur expectantly, until the king rolls his eyes and quietly takes off his own boots. Then they tiptoe, hand in hand, to Merlin’s small room.

Once they’re inside, Merlin closes the door quietly. He lifts up his palms, glancing over at Arthur with a smile, and whispers, “Gestillan.”

He knows his eyes shine gold because Arthur inhales sharply.

“So,” he says, and Arthur’s face flashes with panic. “Woah. What’s wrong?”

“Lower your voice!” Arthur hisses. “I don’t want to wake Gaius.”

“Oh, now you care.” Merlin laughs a little at Arthur’s incredulous expression. “Think that fancy spell work was for show? The room’s soundproof now.”

“Sound… Proof?”

Merlin tilts his head. “Our voices will not carry,” he rephrases.

Arthur relaxes. “Oh,” he says. Then, clearly his throat, he nods. “Very good.”

Merlin grins. “Is it?”

“Yes, it—” Arthur inhales sharply, brows leaping up his face as his eyes widen. He turns an interesting shade of purple. “Merlin!”

Merlin laughs again. “You don’t have to sound so scandalized—”

“I most certainly do—”

“Okay, so you do,” Merlin allows.

“It’s… It’s unseemly!” Arthur’s voice pitches down low on a whisper again.

Merlin considers him, the way Gaius looked at him earlier. Like a physician would.

If anything, it makes Arthur squirm worse.

Merlin goes over to the small window, perching on the sill. His head is still aching a little, but he is able to think clearly in a way he hasn’t since he’s woken up. With Arthur here, his heartbeat echoing in Merlin’s magic, and the cool night air breezing across Merlin’s face, he is able to relax.

Kissing Arthur, he realizes now, may have been a mistake.

The first time around, all those years ago, the years that are recent for Arthur and the ones that will never come to pass for him now, Arthur never crossed that line. And, too, never truly indicated he wanted to cross that line. For all the intimacy that lay between them, unspoken and underdeveloped, Merlin had never thought that Arthur wanted him in that way.

Has he changed so much, coming back?

Or is it that he’s changed very little, but just enough?

Either way, he’s starting to wonder if the change was a good thing after all.

“Merlin…” Arthur’s voice trails off. He doesn’t sound uncertain—oh, it’s so rare for a King like Arthur Pendragon to sound uncertain. Unsure of himself. But he does sound…

“Nervous?” Merlin says gently, almost teasing. He glances over at him, then pretends to fall out of the window. Arthur’s eyes go round like discs, a hand shooting out, and Merlin snickers as he resituates on the edge of the windowsill.

“That wasn’t funny,” Arthur complains loudly, stomping over. But Merlin will take that scowl on his face over the pinch of fear any day.

“Well, not to you, you don’t have a good sense of humor,” Merlin explains.

Arthur scoffs. “Me? You’re the one who can’t tell a joke to save your life.”

“My jokes just go over your head.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sire, see, the thing about humor is—”

“Oh, yes, Merlin, tell me the thing about humor—”

“—That you need to connect with the audience—”

“Oh, connection, is it?”

“—And you must find something universal to bring them all together—”

“And what, pray tell, is the universalism in your humor, Merlin?”

“Why, the buffoonery of the monarchy, sire.”

Arthur pauses. He blinks. “Buffoonery?”

Merlin nods sagely. “Buffoonery,” he confirms.

Arthur sits on Merlin’s bed, shaking his head. He looks small like this, in a peasant’s quarters. His lavish clothes and sun-bleached hair are stark colors against the backdrop of Merlin’s faded dyes, but even so, he does look somewhat diminished. Perhaps it’s the way he’s sitting, rounded shoulders, knees drawn. Perhaps it’s the way he lets his hands fall into his lap, his head hanging low.

Merlin slides off the windowsill and sits beside him.

“Was it awful, then?” Merlin prods gently. “Talking to your uncle?”

Though his head is still hung, Arthur’s grimace is easy to spy. “He believes you a daemon,” Arthur says, his tone light even as the pacing of the syllables stiffens. “He believes I am bewitched.”

“How did you keep him from corralling the guards?” Merlin asks, only half sarcastically.

Arthur shoots him an unimpressed look. “Not even I could convince my guards that you are a daemon, Merlin,” he says dryly.

Merlin is duly pleased by this. He preens, sitting up a little straighter. “Some of your guards are very loyal.”

“Only some?”

Merlin nods. “The rest are idiots.” Arthur snorts. Merlin just keeps nodding. “Remind me to show you the magic I use to get past them sometime.” If the King only knew that a simple apple rolling down a hill was enough to get these men to leave their post, he’d never applaud them again.

“I don’t know how to tell the court my mother is alive,” Arthur whispers.

Merlin’s stomach sinks. He turns back to the window, staring out at the stars. “I’ll admit, not my most thoughtful decision.”

“Not that I am not grateful,” Arthur says quickly. Merlin catches his eye, and he feels just the same as he did when he was looking at the stars. “Of course, Merlin, I… There are no words for what I feel… For what I owe you…” Even as he tries his hardest, his face is pinching uncomfortably.

Merlin takes pity on him. “You owe me nothing,” Merlin says with feeling. He shakes his head. “That’s… There’s too much out there, too much that has been taken from you, taken from me. Too much, still, that we have taken from each other.”

“Have we?” Arthur asks. “Taken from each other? Have I… What have I taken from you?”

So many faces burn in Merlin’s memory. Some of them, clear as day. Others, a blur of dark hair, the scent of strawberries.

“Merlin, why do you do it?”

Merlin can’t look at him. He feels sick, thinking of looking at Arthur right now.

“Once, you asked me if there was a place for magic in Camelot,” Merlin whispers. He feels his magic like a bellyache, the kind one gets that pangs like hunger. He remembers the wood against his palm, the smoke in his throat. He remembers the way indecision and fear felt as stifling as iron cuffs.

Arthur’s quiet for a long moment. “Your memories, they really are back, then?” He hesitates, then adds, “All of them?”

Merlin shrugs. “Maybe not all. It’s hard to say. But I remember that one.”

Arthur swallows. The sound is audible in the small room. “What did you say? The day I asked about magic in Camelot?”  

“I said there was no place for it,” Merlin confesses. Arthur’s inhale is sharp. “I was…”

A fool. Afraid. Lovesick. Damned.

“I was wrong, for choosing what I did over magic,” Merlin says, turning to look Arthur in the eye. He holds the king’s gaze, even as Arthur’s eyes widen and his lips part in surprise. Whatever it is Arthur sees in his gaze, it holds them both there.

“Why did you?”

I was a fool. I was afraid. I was lovesick. I was damned.

“But I would do it again.” Merlin says slowly. In the moonlight, Arthur looks like a regular man. A man born to a mother, who lives, sleeping, down the hall, now, to a father, who tried, and failed, and hurt so many in the process—how many others are just like that? And how could Merlin never really see that? “Only this time, you have to stop me.”

Arthur blinks. Then he keeps blinking, and Merlin can see that the wheels are turning, that he’s thinking, that he’s trying to decipher what Merlin means. But the words, the clarity, is trapped in Merlin’s gullet like a rock.

“Stop you from saying that?”

“Stop me from taking things from you. And stop yourself from taking them from me.”

“Is that what you’re doing then? By giving me back my mother?”

“She’s my friend,” Merlin says with a shrug.

Arthur’s eyes dart to his before he shakes his head. “So you did it for her, not for me?”

Well, that’s not true.

But isn’t that what Merlin’s saying right now? “I can’t do things for you, Arthur,” he says. Except, no, he doesn’t say it—he begs it. Merlin realizes he’s begging, and he decides, oh, hell, in for a penny, and he slips off the bed, and he falls to his knees. He reaches up and grabs Arthur’s hands.

Arthur’s eyes are huge, round moons. They glisten, too, full.

“That’s what I’m saying. The things I do for you… The things I would do… Arthur, you could have the world. You could have the universe. You could have me, and everything I can do, if you ask.”

Arthur searches his face. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

And, oh, very well. Merlin doesn’t know what he’s saying either. His head hurts so badly. He rests it on Arthur’s knees.

“I know, of course,” he murmurs. Then, to lighten the moment, he adds, “Dollophead.”

“My mother,” Arthur repeats, voice soft like an exhale. “Gods, Merlin. Will you ever stop being a miracle?”

Arthur places a hand on Merlin’s head. He doesn’t card his fingers through Merlin’s hair, just rests his hand there, firm, a pressure.

What was it Merlin was trying to say?

He doesn’t know. They stay like that, Arthur’s hand on Merlin’s hair, Merlin’s cheek against his knee, and outside the windowsill, the sun comes up.